The Winter Queen
by VelocityGirl1980
Summary: It is the Summer of 1513, and Catherine has been left as Queen Regent while Henry fights in France. The Scots King is quick to exploit her vulnerability, and launches an invasion that plunges England into a war on two fronts. As a result two battles take place on two different continents. Two battles with very different outcomes. AU. Full summary inside.
1. The Auld Alliance

**Plot Summary:** Summer, 1513, and Catherine of Aragon has been left as Queen Regent while Henry is fighting in France alongside Emperor Maximilian against the French. Sensing the young Queen's vulnerability, the Scots are quick to take advantage, and the English find themselves fighting two battles in two different countries; battles that have two completely different outcomes. Catherine is left entangled in a web of intrigue between England and Scotland; England and France, and Scotland and France. To cap it all, she is pregnant again after one miscarriage, and the tragic death of her young son, Prince Henry. Will she be able to hold the realm together, defeat her enemies, and successfully deliver her first child?

**Author's Note:** It's me again. After a small break from Fan Fiction; I have returned with this major AU story. All the usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Information on the Battle of Flodden has come from Battlefields Trust Online. Please read and review, thank you!

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**Chapter One: The Auld Alliance.**

So, it had come to this.

Catherine, Queen Regent of England sat alone on the dais; her ladies having retreated to the sidelines, and looked over the stony-faced Counsellors standing in a semi-circle in front of her. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the armrests of her chair – an indicator of the rising tension in the air of the Presence Chamber. Her jaw was stiff, her expression resolute; uncompromising. The men's gazes briefly met, as though they were wondering whether the Queen had fully understood what they had told her; or whether her silence masked a simmering anger that would soon erupt in a rage.

There was almost a collective sigh of relief when she did speak again, and in a perfectly calm manner. Her eye fell on Thomas Wolsey – a man rising fast through the ranks of the Court.

"Three days passed," she said to Wolsey, who stepped forwards, "I issued a warrant seizing all Scottish owned lands and properties in England; still James threatens us? Does he not yet realise that I am no mere girl to be trifled with for his own sport? I do not give in to threats!"

"It was more than a threat," someone chipped in uninvited before Wolsey could even utter a word in response.

Catherine held up a hand to silence the speaker. "What do you advise, Wolsey?" she asked, emphasising that she was inviting the Chaplain to speak, and everyone else could hold their peace until she gave the command.

Wolsey smiled and gave a brief, sidelong glance at the suddenly cowed man. "My Lord of Surrey is correct, Your Grace," he said, "this invasion was an act of war which demands immediate retribution-" he was broken off by a loud murmur of approval - "we cannot let this pass. You know my mind where war is concerned. It is dangerous; wasteful of life and money. But this invasion is is too much. Not even the intervention of the Holy Father has stayed James' hand. It is now a moral – as well as a national – duty, to engage him in military action."

If only it were that simple. King Henry had left England months before to fight against the French. The best men had gone with him. The Duke of Buckingham; all his friends from his privy chamber: Brandon, Compton, Carew, and even the young Marquis of Dorset. They were the elite, and Catherine was left with the remains. But Catherine could feel herself being backed into a corner, inch by inch. King James was taking away all her options, and soon all she would have left is the Crown itself; the prize King James coveted above all others.

Catherine turned her attention to the young Earl of Surrey who had interrupted proceedings earlier. He seemed eager. He was shuffling from foot to foot; a dog straining at his leash. Their eyes met, and he fell still as he realised he was being chosen.

"You," Catherine spoke to him. "You ride north with Sir Thomas Lovell, and raise men from the Midlands Counties. Muster as many as you can."

"Yes, Your Grace," he replied without a moment's hesitation; wide eyed with eager anticipation. Thomas Howard seemed to have been left behind by accident, and the slight on his military prowess seemed to rankle, still. Catherine knew he was eager to prove himself.

The man standing to the Earl's right stepped forward. His expression was resolute. "Your Grace," he said. "Permission to speak."

Catherine looked from Surrey to the man, Sir Charles Savage. "Granted."

"I can raise men from Wales and the West Country," he offered, "I can leave right away."

"Approved," replied Catherine. She rose to her feet, and addressed the company as a whole. "Gentlemen, we are agreed. England is officially at war with Scotland. Go to your stations, send out proclamations. I intend to lead the army myself, but for now I must rest."

The gentlemen all bowed low as Catherine stepped down from the dais with a dignified grace that belied her warlike mood. The hems of her skirts lifted delicately over her ankles, revealing the silver satin slippers on her feet; avoiding a tripping hazard that came with these latest fashions of the Court. She smiled a fixed smile at the bowed heads of the Courtiers as she strode through the presence chamber, grateful that it was finally over.

Once she was in the Outer Chambers, Catherine found Maria De Salinas waiting for her. It was clear from the expression on her face that she had heard everything. Her brow was raised, questioningly. But she didn't say anything as she fell into step behind the Queen as they made their way back to the Privy Chamber.

"I know you don't approve," said Catherine, once they were indoors again, and the world was shut out. "Approval to one side, surely you can understand?"

Maria began fussing with a stack of already neatly folded linens. "You're the Queen, and I would never deign to disapprove of anything Your Grace does," she said at length. "Although, would it not be wiser to let the men take charge, and you stay here where it's safe?"

Catherine placed a gentle hand on the linens, coaxing them out of Maria's reach to take away the distraction. "These are my people as much as they are Henry's," she explained gently. "They need me."

"But, the baby," Maria replied, her brow creased in a frown of concern, "he needs you, too."

Catherine knew that she was right. Neither she nor Maria said anything about the Prince; her winter baby, who died so swiftly it was if he had never been born at all. Neither of them needed to say anything; the mutual recognition passed between them silently. Almost telepathically.

"I will be careful," Catherine responded quietly.

It didn't help the Queen that only her closest Maids knew of her condition. The Court Physician knew, and the King had been informed – only because Catherine thought that it would give him heart when fighting the Valois in France. Four years of marriage, and just one miscarriage and a dead Prince to show for it. But if word got out of her latest pregnancy, the men would take her condition as yet another sign of her weakness. Her pride would not permit that.

"Cate, you're my friend," Maria said, squeezing the Queen's hand. "Deliver a healthy son, and this realm will have all the security it needs. You don't need to lead armies and fight wars."

But they both knew that wasn't the point. A Queen had to be visible to the people, especially in times of war. She had to give guidance, leadership, and moral support. Her own needs came low down on that list of priorities. She needed, more than anything, to fix her mind on the next weeks and months. It was all very well having sons to inherit, if she were about to lose her Kingdom. Catherine took one of the linen sheets, and shook it out in front of her. It was a vast, blank surface of cotton just begging to be put to good use.

"We need to stitch new banners for the army," she said, her mind on the war effort. "Let's make them all something special to rally behind."

* * *

King Henry watched Charles Brandon's re-enactment of the battle with a grin on his face. The laughter of the men filled the tavern as Brandon gave the signal for his Squires to mimic the French retreat, using upturned tables as trenches. All ten of them leapt the obstacles, pointedly showing their spurs as they fled the room in mock terror. Already the skirmish (for it was no battle, in reality) was being mockingly dubbed "the battle of Spurs" because that's all the English saw as the French ran for their lives at their advance.

But, Henry knew well that it wasn't all fun and games. His father in law, Ferdinand, had failed to materialise with the man and victuals he had promised. The Scots were reinforcing the French army with ships that had already been spotted off the coast of Normandy, and no doubt they were crowded with Scots fighters. The Auld Alliance between England's enemies holding as fast as ever it; despite the peace agreement, despite his own sister, Margaret, being Queen of Scots.

He could see that he wasn't the only one not getting into the spirit of the celebrations. Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, was staring into his tankard as though mesmerised by its contents.

"Your Grace," Henry called over to the Duke, "I'd like a word."

Stafford snapped out of his reverie, and slid along the bench so that they were side by side, away from the main gaggle of soldiers who continued their uproarious party. Henry decided it would be best if they spoke privately, and guided the Duke through the small tavern, winking at one of the serving girls as he went, making the girl blush despite her discomfort at having a tavern full of drunken English soldiers to contend with.

As soon as they were outside, and the noises of the celebrations muffled by the closed doors, Henry and Stafford were able to speak easily.

"This isn't over," said Henry, "they wouldn't have given up so easily unless there was another plan of attack. What are they playing at?"

"They're definitely up to something," replied the Duke, confirming that he shared Henry's concerns. "We're still being shadowed by the French; they know we're here, and I think they're playing for time. They'll be gathering more men while making us think they're in retreat. Then a surprise attack when the Scots get here."

Henry leaned back against the wall, looking out over the flat, French landscape that rolled out at the rear of the Tavern. All the possibilities ran through his mind while the dulled voices of his army drifted from inside. He knew he ought to be speaking to Maximilian's second in command. But, the Emperor didn't seem to share his concerns, and had ridden on ahead to the next town. They were but twenty miles from Paris, now. So Henry saw no harm in stopping for a rest.

Eventually, after thinking things over, Henry made a decision. "Then we should surprise them before they can surprise us," he said. "How far are the Scots?"

"Normandy," replied the Duke, "Still a weeks ride from here; possibly longer – it depends on how many there are."

Henry sighed deeply. There were always uncertainties to make him doubt his own judgements. He had been King for almost four years, now, and he had yet to make his mark. There was nothing quite so becoming in a King of England than victories over the French. This was his chance, and he would make the risk pay off.

"In the morning," said Henry, "gather the men. We march on Paris as planned, but we will engage the French again before we get there. In the next few days. Spread the word."

The two men nodded to each other; a mutual understanding, and Henry led the way back indoors. The celebrations were growing in volume as pockets of revellers broke out in bawdy song inside the dingy tavern. But through it all, Henry was locked inside his own head; drawing up battle formations, and laying out the perfect ground on which to launch the new attack. He looked up briefly, every time the doors swung open and closed again as the men hurried in out; whether it was because they'd scored a local girl or simply gone to wreak havoc on the local town, Henry no longer cared. So long as they were fit for service come morning.

However, Henry missed the messenger who'd spent several days tracking them down. Charles Brandon weaved his way through the crowded tavern, drunkenly careering around the girl trying to light rushes as evening set in. He starting making up excuses not to join the bawds as he old friend slapped him heartily on the back and near collapsed onto the bench beside him.

"A letter," he said, holding a parchment envelope by thumb and forefinger, "from the Queen."

Finally, after a troubled day, Henry's mood suddenly soared; to the point where he forgot to chide Charles, one of his Generals, for getting so visibly inebriated. He snatched away the letter before Charles had a chance to drop it into the pool of spilled beer at his elbow, and snapped open the heavy wax seal. To read it properly he had to tilt the parchment towards the flickering rush light. The evening was settling in, and they would be marching out again in less than seven hours. Onwards, towards Paris. But all that was forgotten as he read Catherine's news. He had hoped for a progress report on the pregnancy. But what he had was a progress report on the rapid deterioration in relations between England and Scotland.

"The bastards!" he hissed, startling Charles out of the doze he had suddenly slipped into with a start.

"Wha-?"

Henry jumped to his feet in agitation, sending a young Squire running with a clip round the ear for getting in his way.

"Henry, what is it?" Charles repeated, trying for all he was worth to act sober.

"James is invading England with an army led by James and five earls," he explained, "Catherine is marching north with the Earl of Surrey and raising an army. We're at war!"

Charles expression hardened into flushed anger, and he drew his sword as if the Scots army had appeared right there. "We'll sort them out, too!" he thundered. "We'll ride North on the morrow, then-"

"Charles!" Henry bellowed; wresting the dangerously wavering sword from his friends unsteady hand. "We're in France, you tick! There is …" his words trailed off as he realised the helplessness of the situation. "There is nothing we can do."

Even if they set off that instant, it was a month's ride to the Coast, followed by days at sea, and another month's ride from one end of England to the next. By the time they made it, any invasion would be long over. Catherine, his pregnant Queen, was on her own.

* * *

The Banner of St. Cuthbert was taken from Durham Cathedral, and ceremonially hoisted before Queen Catherine and her troops as she reached the neighbouring County, Northumberland, at the beginning of September. The Earl of Northumberland, Harry Percy, was on the county border with an army of ten thousand men, waiting for her at the head of his vast retinue. The banners fluttered in the breeze, the weather was fine, and the men had been busy.

"The Earl of Surrey arrived a full week passed, Your Grace," Harry Percy informed Catherine as they rode to the village of Branxton. "He has twenty thousand men. Sir Charles Savage raised another five thousand. Together, we make up an army of thirty-five thousand men."

"That's excellent!" Catherine replied, cheered that so many seemed to have flocked to their cause.

But the look on the Earl's face was far from heartening. "We're still out-numbered. Surrey has been shadowing the Scots ever since he got here. He thinks they have well over forty thousand, and they have far more experienced leaders."

Catherine already knew that the Earls of Montrose, Bothwell, Lennox, and Argyll were leading the Scottish Army, as well as King James himself. She had the Earls of Surrey and Percy to lead her men. Her one hope was that the ships and men sent to France had diminished James's army – but now even that faint hope had been taken from her.

"Send for Surrey, my lord," Catherine instructed, "gather the other Generals; we need a plan."

Hours later, and Catherine and her ladies were lodged in a manor house within the village itself. It was a small place, but close to Flodden, where a suitable ground for the engagement had been scouted out. Not in Flodden itself, but some high ground just south of it. The Scots army, having had a much shorter march than Catherine's, had already taken up a strategic position, and would be fighting downhill.

When Surrey arrived, however, Catherine was relieved to see him looking so relaxed. He was fully armoured, surrounded by a company of his best Squires. At his side was Thomas Lovell, and Sir Charles Savage. But it was Surrey who did the talking.

"I have marched my men around the Scots camp already, Your Grace," he explained, "King James is camped at Flodden Edge, and we've been watching him like hawks."

"Good work, My Lord," said Catherine with an appreciative smile. "I trust you have sent word to the King of Scots asking for a formal withdrawal?"

It was a chivalric formality. It was always rejected, as Surrey confirmed. "As such," he added, "we have continued our advance. We have swept to the North East in a wide circle, and cut off their retreat. Although the Scots are already in formation, they are entrenched in marsh lands, and even downhill, the fighting will be hard for them." Surrey paused, allowed himself a triumphant smile, and concluded: "Even if they want to retreat, they can't."

Catherine had been calm and composed throughout the whole ordeal. Never once did her mask slip. But the relief she felt at that moment made her sag, and smile her first natural smile in months.

"My Lord," she said, beckoning him to come closer, "lay James dead at my feet on the morrow, and you will not go unrewarded."

Surrey's father was the Duke of Norfolk, and had been stripped of his Dukedom by the old King for supporting Richard III. He was spared his life; just reduced to a mere 'earl'. Catherine didn't say as much, but she allowed herself to hope that she and Surrey would soon have an elevation to plan.

"All for Your Grace," replied Surrey, blushing beneath his upturned visor, "my Queen."

* * *

That night, Catherine lay awake in bed with Maria massaging her back. The night was calm. It would have been silent if it wasn't for the hordes of soldiers preparing for the next day's battle. She would have a view of it, too. She would be able to see everything because her window overlooked the fields where the engagement would take place. Even in the pale moonlight, she could make out the Scottish Royal Standard fluttering around James' camp. But by midnight, she had allowed Maria to coax her away from the windows, and into bed.

Her stomach was swelling now. She had to conceal it beneath reams of heavy fabric and gowns of Ermine. Each day she wore a heavy diadem weighted with jewels, so that her neck ached horribly each evening. She was the Queen, though, and she intended to look every inch of it.

"How is the baby?" asked Maria, diverting Catherine's attention away from the battle.

Catherine smiled. "He is blossoming," she replied drowsily. "He gives me no trouble."

Catherine rolled over on to her back, letting the feather bed conform to the growing contours of her body, and ran a hand down her front. Some close Counsellors had been let in on her secret as a precaution. But it was still a secret between the King and their intimates. Her special, secret baby was the last thing she thought of as she slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	2. Pyrrhic Victories

**Author's Note:** Thank you for the reviews, faves and follows! As always, the usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Thank you again for taking the time to read, and I hope everyone enjoys.

**Apologies for re-uploading this chapter, but two ludicrous errors needed fixing. Henry Courtenay was the Marquis of Exeter, not Dorest (unlike Thomas Grey, who was the Marquis of Dorset). And it was, of course, James IV (not V) killed at Flodden.**

Reviews welcome!

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**Chapter Two: Pyrrhic Victories.**

The sun rose bright and clear on the eight day of September; the air crisp with the promise of approaching autumn. Catherine was grateful for it; she couldn't afford to have her soldiers collapsing with heat exhaustion half-way through the battle. As a precaution, before the dawn she and her Ladies were moved to a nearby Church, well back from the battlefield, but still within easy reach of the messengers bringing her word.

In the safety of the Church, she prayed before the altar for victory over the Scots. Her lips moved constantly, each word annunciated perfectly over the clicking of the rosary entwined in her fingers. At her side, Lady Elizabeth Stafford and Maria De Salinas mirrored her genuflection as their devotions were concluded after an hour spent kneeling on the cold flagstones.

Elizabeth smoothed down the front of Catherine's skirts before they prepared to leave and visit the troops. As she did so, Catherine could see the girl's hands shaking. She was pale, too, and not at all talkative, as she usually was. Catherine reached down, and raised Elizabeth up, looking at her kindly.

"He will be all right," she said, "he will come back safe; God willing,"

Elizabeth blushed and tried to look away. "I am more worried for Your Grace," she said, deflecting any further questions.

Elizabeth was the daughter of Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, and betrothed to Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey. Both men were risking their lives in battle. One in France, and other just a few hundred yards down the road in a farmer's field. Catherine felt only compassion for her, and all the other women who had husbands, sons, brothers and fathers whom they may be seeing for the final time that morning. But it did not do to dwell on what could happen.

"You will ride out with me," Catherine said to Elizabeth, "to the front lines. Together we will address our men."

Elizabeth's eyes widened. "Really, Your Grace?" she asked, wonder struck; glowing with a sudden happiness. Something Catherine found infectious as her own spirits lifted. It was the best women could do; buoy each other up in their trials.

"Yes, I am sure," Catherine nodded, and began leading them back up the aisle to where their horses were already saddled and ready to go.

The journey to the field was short; just beyond the main village of Branxton. They could see the Scots army lining Flodden Field, but to Catherine it looked well defended by James' troops. Her Kentish archers would be firing uphill, their trajectory impeded to a point that could be the failing of them all. However, she kept her thoughts to herself as she and Elizabeth, flanked by some of the Earl of Northumberland's men for their own protection, rode out across the English lines. Filed out in front of them, backing further down the steep incline, were the lines of English soldiers. To her back, were the enemy Scots. She didn't look over her shoulder once; never taking her eye off her own men. They were just over thirty-thousand in number. Most were armoured, all had at least a pike and sword to defend themselves with. The banners that she and her ladies had stitched themselves were fluttering on the soft breeze. A breeze, she noticed, that would be favourable to the Archers, making up a little for the disadvantage of their position.

The Earls of Surrey and Northumberland rode out from the heart of their men to greet the Queen.

"Is Your Grace going to address the army?" asked Northumberland from atop one of the largest Destriers that Catherine had seen. "They need all the encouragement they can get."

Catherine nodded to him, and brought her horse close to the front line of the formation, and gave the signal for her guards to step back and give her some space. Instantly, the chatter of the men died down into an expectant hush, all eyes fixed on Catherine. This was the sort of thing she had seen her mother do on an almost daily basis. Isabella made it look easy; like she was born to do it, despite her gender. Now, for the first time in her life, Catherine knew she had to do the same. There was no margin for error.

"Good Christian men," she began, tightening her grip on the horses reins before it picked up on her nerves. "You know as well as I why we're brought here today, therefore, I shall not speak of it again. Enough of life's precious breath has already been wasted on that tyrant, who's minions are lined up along the ridge of that hill behind me. But know this, Sirs, your sacrifice to us will never be forgotten, never be taken for granted, and never be taken in vain. But indulge your poor Queen as she begs of you one final favour: for every one of your Brethren you see slain on this field today; take ten of them in revenge."

Catherine paused as the army broke out in rapturous applause; applause to which she laughed with relief and joy at her reception. Knowing she didn't have long, however, she had to carry on while her first words were still being relayed to the men at the back of the formation,

"Know that God is on our side," she continued, eyeing the Priests moving among the ranks of men, granting absolution to the soldiers for what they were about to do. "Behind God, is your King, me, and the rest of your grateful nation. Now that I urge you on, I do so not as _a _Queen, but _the _Queen; to the peril of the Scots, and all England's enemies; in the name of St. George himself!"

Catherine's last few words were lost among the roars of appreciation from the army. She grinned like a maid, and looked back over her shoulder. Elizabeth and her Earl were locked in a kiss, but behind them, Maria De Salinas was looking back at her, her grin matching Catherine's. It was then that the babe quickened. Among the shouts and cheers, as the women bade farewell to their men, a painful jolt from within. Alive, and strong; the spark of life had ignited on the battlefield.

* * *

Inevitably, the morning after the night before brought with it sore heads a-plenty. Henry looked around at them all in the yard of the tavern as they hauled themselves into the saddle. Stiff, sore, and bleary eyed. He could only send up silent prayers of thanks that his father in law hadn't come to their aid, as promised. If Ferdinand had seen this woeful sight he'd think his new son a herder of bawds, rather than a leader of men.

He couldn't resist, however, grinning at Charles Brandon leaning dangerously to one side in the saddle as if over compensating for his still spinning head. Henry had every intention of marching them hard, all through the day; Charles especially.

"You need not think I'm going easy on you, Charles," Henry taunted his old friend. "You're setting a terrible example to my Cousin, Exeter." He nodded to a much younger boy who was grooming the mane of his Destrier horse just to the left of the yard.

Charles snorted with lacklustre amusement. "Does your mother know you're here, boy?" he mocked, turning his bloodshot eyes to the unsuspecting young man.

Harry Courtenay, Marquis of Exeter, suddenly stopped what he was doing and jumped to attention like a scalded cat. He outranked Charles at Court, but being barely out of the schoolroom, he was under strict orders to defer to him, and his cousin the King, on the battlefield. "Yes, sir," he yelped back at Charles, sounding like a scalded cat, too.

"Leave him be, Charles," the King warned. Turning to Harry, he beckoned him over. "Bring your horse, we'll ride ahead of these drunks and lead the army ourselves."

To Henry's relief, the Marquis looked delighted at being chosen to lead the army. He was barely a child; a child in Henry's Guardianship since the death of his father, two years before. As such, Henry had absolutely forbidden him to have anything to do with the drunken debauchery of the night before, and packed him off to bed the moment they had arrived at the Tavern. By the time Henry had time to check on him, to try and explain why he'd been so firm, Harry was fast asleep. He hated ended the day on a sour note, and now that Harry was all smiles again, he knew the quarrel was forgotten.

Soon, they were on the road again; riding out before an army still sluggish from the excesses of the night before. Only the advance guards were clearing the way ahead for them. But the skies were clear and blue, with not so much as a heat haze to obscure their view. Henry could clearly see the small band of French soldiers that were shadowing them through the forests to the left of their road. He knew they wouldn't do anything, yet. He let them be; even slackening the pace so he could talk to Harry.

"I promised your mother I would look after you," he said, explaining the previous night's decision.

"I know," he replied, in a tone that suggested he still didn't like it one little bit.

Henry waited, knowing there was more coming.

"But you didn't promise to turn into her, did you?"

He sighed deeply, and signalled for Harry to stop. "I know you think I'm treating you like a child, but prove yourself on the field and it will shut that lot up," he explained, jerking his head back towards the main army. Charles was beginning to catch them up, and no doubt his ribbing of the young Marquis would continue apace as soon as he arrived. The elder soldiers always made sport of the younger ones.

Harry smiled ruefully. "The advance guard are returning," he pointed out, "why is that?"

Henry thought he was simply trying to change the subject. But when he looked, he could sense the urgency. Their horses were spurred on as fast as they could go, sending great plumes of dry dust billowing skywards in their wake.

"Your Majesty," the one in front called out before he even reached the King, "there's an ambush ahead, we must prepare to fight now."

"Shit! Harry, ride back now and warn the Duke of Buckingham, he's already prepared for this; then tell Charles Brandon to get here with all haste," Henry instructed his cousin. He looked as if he might protest and already his sword was drawn. Then, as if belatedly remembering his promise to obey the King in all things, he dug his spurs into the horse's flank and galloped back the way they had just come.

Once Harry was carrying out his orders, Henry turned to the guards who'd finally drawn level with him. "How far down the road are they?"

"Barely a mile, and they're on the march," the guard replied, "I think we'll meet them half way. That gives us an hour to prepare for combat."

Not enough, thought Henry. He didn't voice his fears aloud, but he knew it was simple fact. The Emperor's men were miles ahead of them, and now in between them stood a hostile French battalion. He thought back on the packs of French soldiers who had shadowed them; wondered if there was some sign that he should have picked up on before chiding himself into action again. He swallowed his nerves as Buckingham and Brandon levelled with him, and braced himself as best he could for the fight ahead.

* * *

From the moment Catherine, Elizabeth and Maria made it back to the Manor their Generals had commandeered, the noises of the battle had begun to fill the air. Maria tried fruitlessly to make Catherine lie down and rest for the sake of the baby. But the Queen was too agitated. Within half an hour reports were coming through that the Scots army were making early gains, and pushing the English back towards the village of Branxton. Then, the Town Crier bellowed out the first casualties. Sir Charles Savage was among them – one of Catherine's own hand-picked fighters.

For just a few precious minutes, she had given in to Maria's hankering, and laid down on the bed in her lodgings. But she could see the field itself from the large bay window that dominated the chamber; she was back on her swollen feet within minutes.

"We're losing ground," she informed Maria from her place at the window, "you should gather your belongings in case you need to flee."

Maria looked scandalised. "I'm not leaving without you, Catherine!"

Catherine tore herself away from the battle to look at her friend. They had arrived in England together, all those years ago, and she should have known that Maria would be the first to refuse to leave. Elizabeth, too, looked as if she was there for the long haul. She had moved to stand at Catherine's side, and was watching from the window as though entranced in some living dream.

"Your Grace," said Elizabeth, her voice barely a whisper, "look."

Both Catherine and Maria turned to see what was happening. The Earl of Surrey's men now had the advancing Scots army trapped in a wide circle with arrows raining down on them from Archers who brought up the rear. Catherine could follow the black trajectory of their flight as their deadly tips pierced the enemies armour with eviscerating ease. The muffled cries of the dead and dying joined the distant booms as the cannons now entered the fray, Catherine strained her eyes to see who was firing. It could well have been the Scots in a desperate attempt to regain control of the battle. But even if it was, they could see that Surrey and his men were too tightly closed in around them.

Catherine, standing in the middle of the two other women, reached for their hands. "Come on," she urged them gently, "we should be down there with them, now."

The three them turned from the window in tandem and ran through the house, down the stairs and straight out into the streets below. The women of the town had opened their homes to take in wounded English Soldiers. Tears of sadness welled in Catherine's eyes as she caught a brief glimpse of Sir Charles Savage's body lying partially covered by his own Royal Standard laid out in the hall way of the Mayor's house. The Mayor himself, Catherine assumed, was still out on the field.

But the women couldn't stop to grieve their dead yet. They raced through the narrow streets, dodging the carts that carried the dead and wounded away from the scene. By that time, the Town Crier was calling out a steady stream of different names for the fallen. William Graham, Earl of Montrose; Adam Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, Matthew Stewart, Earl of Lennox, and Archibald Campbell, Earl of Argyll. The flower of the Scots army were now dead, thanks to the Earl of Surrey's assault. Catherine was almost turning cartwheels.

As soon as they reached the command tent that was acting as the army Headquarters; Catherine, Elizabeth and Maria stood with their arms wrapped around each other's shoulders, praying for the end of the battle to come; which it did, barely four hours after it had begun. The silence fell suddenly, and seemed as heavy as a woollen shroud after the hours of frantic, calamitous noise of the fighting. The cannons ceased, the snapping the bows fell into silence.

The women separated as a shadow moved outside the canvass of the tent. It grew larger and larger as the person approached. A servant opened the front flap to reveal the Earl of Surrey. His face was smothered in someone else's blood; the same blood that was matting his hair. Over his shoulders was a large corpse, dripping a blood trail as the Earl presented his prize to the Queen. He heaved the corpse over and off his shoulders, above his head and onto the floor at the Queen's delicate, silver-silk slippered feet. He bowed deeply and dropped to one knee before his Queen.

"Your Majesty," he said, sombre but triumphant, "may I present His Highness, King James IV of Scotland."

Elizabeth and Maria stepped back with a gasp as the bloodied pulp of a King was dropped at their feet. But Catherine was jubilant. Her smile spread from ear to ear as she bowed down to get a closer look at her dead adversary. To everyone's surprise, she reached out an immaculately fine hand, and carefully lifted James's battered head. It was hanging on to its neck by a thin strip of flesh and sinew.

"A gift for Henry!" she exclaimed, as excited as a schoolgirl. "This will gladden his heart."

Surrey rose to his feet. Catherine noted that he was still breathless. "I think, perhaps, just the bloodied surcoat, Your Grace. We can't give His Majesty nightmares!"

Catherine couldn't pretend that she wasn't disappointed. But, reluctantly, she agreed on the compromise. Just the bloodied surcoat for Henry. It was one of the largest battles in England's history; according to the local Monk who had diligently taken down every detail of it for his records, and she had won it. Nothing could dint her happiness.

* * *

The French army bore down on them without a moments hesitation. Henry was disgusted to see some of his own men flee in terror; some who were, just a few hours ago, mocking the French for showing their spurs in fear. Desertion happened all the time, and nothing could be done about it; Henry knew that. But he knew, too, he'd hunt them down and hang them by the wayside later. All their energies now had to be concentrated on repelling the surprise attack from the French.

But everywhere he looked, he was surrounded by Fleur de Lys shields and banners of the enemy. He threw his visor down with a crunch, and drew his sword before bellowing the order to his army to get straight into the heart of the melee. He urged his horse forwards with a shout of anger and frustration; his sword ready to strike at the first man in his path. Behind him, his own army thundered close behind, blindly slashing at the enemy who did the same as them.

Above the clash of the steel blades, and the shouts of the wounded, Henry heard Charles Brandon give the command for the first of many volleys of arrows to loosed upon the attackers. But, with his visor down, he couldn't see to what effect. He lunged forwards, noting with grim satisfaction that his blade was now slick and dripping with blood. The resistance was surprisingly weak. Ever onwards, fighting against the oncoming tide of armoured human bodies, Henry urged his men forwards. Slowly, inch by inch, they pushed the attackers back into the woods from which they had first appeared.

Henry couldn't see who was doing what any more. His mind was concentrated only on forging the path ahead so that his men could follow him. After an hour, maybe two – Henry couldn't tell – there came a sudden halt. The resistance broke, and the French army began to flee. Henry almost dropped his sword, and as he leaned down to catch and steady his grip, a blinding, searing pain gripped his chest; making him cry out in pain. He fell from his horse, and rolled over in the churned up dirt at his horses feet. Then came another blow as another bolt hit him, piercing his armour, and the shaft of an arrow appeared in the left hand side of his chest, next to his heart. He could feel the blood pouring out of him, running down the inside of his armour and soaking his chemise as he curled into a ball on the floor.

All around him, another fight had broken out. Swords were clashing above him, and he could hear the frantic voice of his young cousin, Harry Courtenay, swearing fluidly in French as the last of their attackers were beaten off. All the while, his life's blood pumped from the wounds in his chest, impeded only by the arrows embedded there.

Henry could feel his grip on consciousness loosening as rough hands picked him up and half- dragged him to the side of the dirt track they had been travelling along just hours before. His helmet was dragged off his head, leaving a red gash at the side of his head where the metal had been dented inwards. He opened his eyes, just able to see Harry Courtenay frantically pulling off his breast plate. Henry cried out again as the arrows that had hit him were pulled smartly out of his flesh.

"Don't worry, Your Grace," cried Harry, "we can stem the blood flow. You'll be all right."

Breathless, Henry could only manage short, declarative sentences. "No. I. Won't," he gasped, trying to roll onto his front.

He could feel blood rising at the back of his throat now. He knew that death was only minutes away, and he wasn't about to start fooling himself that it wasn't. Somehow, summoning every ounce of strength he had left in his body, he got to his knees and pulled Harry down to his level, so they were looking each other in the eye.

"Get back to England," he sputtered, tasting the blood on his tongue, "get back to Catherine, now. Don't wait for the others."

"No, Henry-" Harry began to plead, but Henry silenced him.

"There is no time to waste," he snapped firmly, trying to shake sense back into the boy. "You're my only kinsman. Take my ring and my coronet to Catherine. Give my sword to my son that she is carrying. Tell her I died fighting, got that?"

It was more than Henry could manage, and seeing the tears trickling a clean path through the blood and dirt on his Cousin's face took the last of the breath from his body. His mind reeled, his eyes lost focus as he let himself fall back to the floor in a bloodied heap. He rolled over onto his back, letting the sobs of his Cousin wash over him, and looked high into the soaring heavens. The sky was beautiful. Open, wide and the perfect pitch of blue. A bird of prey sailed high on the winds that swept the heavens. A falcon, or a hawk; he couldn't distinguish. He tracked the bird's progress as it swooped and darted; until his eyes lost all focus, and he let his soul take flight along with it. His time on earth was brief, but beautiful. "Cate," he whispered as he died, the sound was lost on the breeze.


	3. On The Brink

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story; your input is greatly appreciated. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. I hope everyone enjoys the story. Apologies again for the mix up in titles of the last chapter. Henry Courtenay was the Marquis of Exeter, not Dorset. Please read and review, thank you!

* * *

**Chapter Three: On The Brink.  
**

A Marquisate and an Earldom were more than just a birthright; they were a divine calling, and therefore, a solemn duty. Harry Courtenay knew better than to abuse his exalted position. But as the expressionless Guard regarded him with supreme indifference, he could feel his temper about to snap and remind the man of exactly who he was dealing with in so fine a manner.

He was grieving for his Cousin, the King. He had spent a week on the road, three days sailing the swells of the tumultuous seas, and another two weeks on the roads to London, only to be denied entry to the Counsel Chamber he desperately needed. He drew in a deep breath, calming his agitated nerves, and turned away to gather his thoughts. Ignoring the condescending looks of the passers by, he waited until the outer-chambers were empty of spectators again, before trying one last time.

"I am the Marquis of Exeter, and I am on the King's business," he explained evenly, "I must speak with the Counsel as a matter of utmost urgency. I have shown you the Seal Ring, already!"

The Guard sighed deeply, but didn't budge his halberd one inch from across the door to the Counsel Chamber. "The Queen is not in residence-"

"I know that!" Harry spat. "I heard you the first time, now stand aside."

There was a flicker of amusement in the Guard's eyes; the corners of his thin set mouth twitched. Harry knew what was coming next; he stood back and waited for it.

"Shouldn't you be in the schoolroom, boy?"

It finally happened. Harry's fist connected with the Guard's jaw so fast that he didn't realise what he was doing until after the Guard had recoiled from the shock of the blow. The halberd fell to the floor with a resounding crack against the immaculately polished oak floorboards, and Harry seized his advantage and advanced on the disbarred door. But as he grasped the handle, the Guard recovered his wits enough to grab Harry's elbow, and started trying to drag him back, making him kick out at the door to get it open.

"Hold there!" the Guard hissed in his ear. "You're under arrest!"

Harry continued to ignore him, but the commotion had brought the Archbishop of Canterbury out of the session, with an expression like thunder on his broad face. He looked as florid and angry as the trident wielding imps painted on the Cathedral walls. "What in God's name..." his words trailed off as he took in the sight before him.

"Your Grace," Harry finally said, "I have an urgent message for the Counsel; this man denied my access." He pointed accusingly at the Guard stood to his left, stooping to pick up the fallen halberd. Its blade had taken a chunk out of the floorboards.

Archbishop Warham Harry him with a steely look, which softened considerably once he realised who had spoken. "My Lord of Exeter," he replied at length, "you're supposed to be in France with the King."

"He really is the Marquis of Exeter, then?" asked the Guard, sounding suddenly sheepish.

Harry rolled his eyes, but otherwise continued to ignore the man. "Please, Archbishop," he implored Warham, "I can explain my interruption; it's not without cause."

Behind him, in the entrance to the outer-chamber, a crowd of curious onlookers had begun to congregate; making Harry blush. Silently, he prayed that the Archbishop would give him a chance. The expression on the man's face was still incredulous. But, to Harry's relief, the Archbishop hedged his bets and took him seriously. None too gently, Warham caught Harry by the scruff of his neck, and pushed him into the gallery that led onto the Counsel Chamber. It was a broad, open room with just plain tapestries hanging on the walls. Book cases were stacked with dusty old tomes that must only have seen the light of day on very special occasions. Harry had never been through these doors, and had always wondered what went on, especially since he would soon be entitled to a seat on the Counsel in his own right, soon enough.

Warham let the door slam shut behind him, before rounding on Harry. "You cannot come barging in an a session like this," he scolded, then paused as he fixed Harry with look of ill-concealed disgust. "Especially not when you look like … that."

Throughout the three week journey Harry hadn't paused to sleep or eat, never mind wash. But the Archbishop's distemper had rubbed off on him. "My news is urgent, Your Grace," he repeated.

"For your sake, My Lord, I sincerely hope that it is," the Archbishop warned as he led the way through the first of the two connecting Chambers that led to the Counsel.

As they approached the archway that led to the second, Harry's resolve suddenly gave way. He was exhausted from his travels; the fight with the guard had sent his emotional equilibrium into disarray, and now he was about to deliver the most catastrophic news to a bevy of Privy Counsellors. His heart beat raced already, and his stomach lurched, making him nauseous with a sudden fear. He reached out one filthy hand, and placed it on the rich, purple silk of the Archbishop's elbow.

"Your Grace, may I speak privately before we go in, please?" he was close to begging, and past caring whether he simply angered the man even more than he already had.

But Warham seemed to sense that something was deeply wrong. He turned to Harry, and guided him more gently to a large bay window that was set in gallery, between stacked cabinets. There, they sat in the embrasure that looked out over the forecourt of Windsor Castle. When they were settled Harry drew the sword from his belt, and placed it at the Archbishop's feet. He then withdrew the King's seal ring from his pocket, and dropped it into Warham's palm.

"Your Grace," he said, "His Majesty died in battle three weeks past."

Silence. For several seconds – during which Harry was weak with fear – it seemed as though the Archbishop thought him a liar. His disbelieving eyes fell from the ring in his hand, and down to the sword at his feet. The King's sword, half-shrouded by a bloodstained Royal Standard. Harry wished more than anything that Warham would just say something to acknowledge the fact that he'd heard what he'd just been told. Finally, with a hand that visibly shook, he made the sign of the cross.

"God help us," he whispered to himself. "God have mercy on us."

* * *

The day was still young when Catherine and her retinue reached the City of York. The people flocked onto the streets to welcome them as they rode through the gates and into the wide road that swept through the heart of the commercial centre. News of the defeat of the Scots King had travelled fast; much faster than the Royal party who were returning to London in slow, easy stages. It had been four weeks, and they were still only half way back to London. But Catherine couldn't fault the reason. Safely in the back of a carriage, she could run her hand over her swollen belly. There was no keeping it a secret any longer, and the people were now celebrating a double victory. The Scots brought to heel, and an heir in the womb of the Queen.

At her side, as always, was Maria De Salinas. She was holding back the curtains from the window of the carriage so that Catherine could see out at the people who lined the streets to welcome them. The women smiled at the clouds of paper confetti billowed from the top windows of the houses that lined their route. The bunting and banners stretched from house to house from across the streets; streaks of vibrant colour offsetting the grey cobbles. The noise was deafening. Catherine placed a hand on her belly, as if trying to protect the babies ears.

"There may be word from the King awaiting you," said Maria, turning in her seat to face Catherine.

The mention of his name made butterflies flutter in her stomach. "I pray so," she replied with an exaggerated sigh. "He will miss the birth if he does not hurry home."

Eventually, the carriage pulled up outside York Minster. The Cathedral was surrounded by more of the Queen's supporters, but already a path was being cleared to the door so the Queen could give thanks to God for victory over the Scots. As soon as the footman opened the door of the carriage to help Catherine down, a burst of applause went up from the people. Many cheered; others gazed in awe as they set eyes on an divinely appointed Monarch for the first time in their lives.

"It's still early," Catherine said to Maria as they made their way inside the Cathedral. "I think we can make it as far as Doncaster before nightfall."

Maria didn't look happy, but Catherine cut off the route of protest by turning to bless a baby that a young woman held out towards her. She took the swaddled infant, balanced him in the crook of her left arm, and made the sign of the cross on his brow with her right hand before handing him back. Other people she shook hands with; exchanged words, imparted blessings, and words of hope. Maria, meanwhile, kept her doubts to herself until the reached the entrance to the Cathedral.

Catherine had never been to York Minster before. Inside, the nave ran on into the cool distance; above her head, the fan vaulted ceiling swept upwards for what seemed like miles. All around were banks of stained glass windows that let in a flood of vibrant light, despite the grey skies outside. It was a breathtaking sight. But empty, beside one man. Thomas Wolsey, Henry's Chaplain, was there waiting for her. That benevolent smile was fixed in place, his face smooth and untroubled; an expression that never changed – no matter what was happening. He bowed low to the Queen as he approached, and once he was near enough, kissed her hand.

"I must congratulate Your Grace on your victory over the Scots," he said, guiding the Queen to a nearby seat.

Catherine was puzzled. She hadn't sent for Wolsey; he had arrived of his own accord. If she didn't know him any better, she would have sworn he'd come here as an act of humility to his triumphant Queen. Alas, she did know better.

"To what do we owe the pleasure?" she asked, noting how he remained standing, towering over her in a way that she did not like.

Almost as if he had sensed her thoughts, Wolsey sat beside her, facing the grand Altar at far end of the nave. "I was sent by the Counsel to speak privately with Your Grace," he explained. "There has been a development in London-"

"What sort of development?" she asked, cutting him off before he could go off on a tangent and divert her away from any possible bad news. Because now that she could see him in profile, she could see the tiredness in his normally dancing blue eyes, the grey pallor of his usually florid complexion. His smile was pained – and the sudden changes in the unruffable Wolsey were enough to alarm her alone.

Only briefly did he turn to meet her eye as he explained his unexpected presence. "There may be some trouble in the City, plague and the suchlike, and the Counsel thought it wise to lodge you in Pontefract Castle until it all settles down," he said. "In light of your condition, we think it doubly important that you stay well away from populated areas, in case the contagion spreads."

Plague ravaged the towns and cities in summer months, and Catherine had prayed fervently that they were already over the worst of it. There had been no new cases reported to her since the end of July, and it was now October. She had heard nothing on the roads, but that didn't surprise her. There were rarely public proclamations of plague to avoid panic among the people.

Catherine paused for breath before approving. "If that is what the Counsel requests, then I will go there."

Pontefract was close by. Just another two or three hours ride away. But she was far from happy with the idea of having to stay there until the pestilence died out in London. "But, Thomas, you realise that if we tarry at Pontefract for more than a few weeks, I will be unable to travel at all."

Wolsey looked almost relieved. "That would be preferable," he said, taking her by surprise. "With only three months to go until the birth it is essential everything possible is done to ensure your safety, and the child's."

Catherine heaved a sigh of impatience and turned away from Wolsey. "Very well," she replied, "We will await the birth in Pontefract."

An awkward silence settled around the two of them as they both fixed their gaze on the statue of Christ adorning the high altar. The cheers of the crowds were muffled, but the light still dazzled as it streamed in through the tall windows, illuminating the lives of the saints. In one of them, David slew Goliath, and Thomas Beckett lay broken in a pool of of his own blood. That was England all over, Catherine thought. Punching above their weight, and stubborn little men getting themselves killed.

* * *

Charles Brandon looked at the King's prostrate body with a tear in his eye. Losing a King was something; losing a close friend was something else again. But to lose both, and not be allowed to bury him in a Christian manner was more than he could bear. Henry was laid out in a parochial church like a common English soldier, waiting for someone to come and claim him and take him home like a scrap of lost property. Now that Henry was dead; he was just a corpse. But a corpse that had to be kept under tight wraps. The soldiers were sworn to secrecy; the mercenaries disbanded with not a word of explanation as to why. The Earl of Essex had been despatched to negotiate a truce with the French – who they prayed had no idea that it was the King they killed. Anything to play for time before word got out that the King of England was dead. So that meant Henry's body being treated like any others. Charles was disgusted.

Nevertheless, Charles stayed with Henry. He kept the wax tapers burning at his head and feet. He had already paid for the embalmer himself, so that the body could be preserved. The Duke of Buckingham, too, had assisted greatly. He hovered in the shadows of the Church, watching from a distance, pulling his dagger in and out of its sheaf. Always nervous; always on edge. Ticks that began to grate on Charles' nerves.

"Surely the Counsel know by now?" he said, still not turning to face Buckingham.

Buckingham carried on playing with the hilt of his dagger. "Word will come through, Charles, just wait. Be patient."

Wait. Be patient. It was all anyone ever said. "Surely they're not going to wait until the Queen gives birth before making this public?"

"What choice do they have?" retorted the Duke. "Look, if word spreads that England has no King, no ruler, and no authority, she's anyone's for the taking. That includes the French; Jesú, even the Scots could take us if they wanted."

Charles opened his mouth to reply. But merely kicked one of the Church support pillars in frustration when he realised the truth of the Duke's words. "If we could just get him to Calais," he said, throwing his hands up in anger. "Just a small escort. To Calais, and to the next ship to England. He wouldn't be the first English corpse making that journey."

Buckingham emerged from the shadows of the cloisters, and placed his hands on Charles' shoulders. A placatory gesture, like trying to calm a raging Bull. "The Counsel know we're here," he calmly explained. "We must wait. Any hasty actions could end in disaster-"

"Like this isn't a disaster already!" Charles retorted angrily, shoving the Duke away and marching to the nearest pew.

He had given up hope on the Duke. Stafford was the highest ranking man in England at that moment, but even he persisted in slavishly deferring to the Counsel, and Charles had hoped for better. But, as he raised his head from his hands, he saw that the Duke was deep in thought.

"Perhaps," Stafford eventually said, "if you and I could get him to Calais, and then cross the channel with him together. We send word to the Counsel from Dover of where we are..." his words trailed off, but Charles could see that they were getting somewhere at last.

Charles picked up on where the Duke was leading. "We could leave the Earl of Essex and Shrewsbury in charge of the military campaign," he said, getting to his feet again. "They can carry on as if everything was normal, and we could get the King back to England with no one noticing."

He didn't think it mattered about the loss of the mercenaries; they were only there for the looting anyway. Buckingham, it seemed, agreed with him.

"Very well, then," he replied quietly, moving to stand beside the King's body. "We can't wait here for ever, anyway."

Finally, they were moving again. It was the waiting that had Charles on hooks, and all he wanted was to be doing something again. He allowed himself the first small smile since the King's death, and prepared to get back into action.

* * *

Sir Thomas More wasn't a drinker by nature, but he needed the glass of wine in his hands, now. He drained it in one go as Wolsey settled himself down on the opposite side of the desk, once his cloak had been taken by the servants. The fire was lit, for the hour was late. It was dark, wet, and sombre in the house.

"She's not happy, Thomas," said Wolsey, "and I don't think she was entirely won over by the plague excuse."

Thomas wasn't normally the cursing type, either. But he felt the need at that moment. "This is absurd!" he exclaimed, slamming the glass down on the desk.

Wolsey was quick to calm him down again, though. "Listen," he said firmly, "if the Queen finds out imagine what the shock could do. Not just to her, but the baby."

Thomas remembered well the Queen's miscarriage, and the short lived Prince. But the prospect of keeping the King's death a secret for three months seemed impossible; it was most assuredly morally wrong. The lies; the deception – it made his stomach churn. But likewise, he could see no alternative. Worse, he could see that it wasn't enough.

"What about the rival claimants?" he asked, pouring more wine for himself and Wolsey. "Where are they?"

Wolsey picked his glass up by the stem, a delicate manner he always showed. "Harry Courtenay, you mean?" he asked. "He is nothing to be feared; he is back with his Tutors after his excursion to France."

"And the Poles?"

Wolsey shook his head. "The Queen's dearest friends," he replied with a nonchalant wave of his hand. "They would never betray her."

More was satisfied with the answers so far, but there was still one more that weighed heavily on his mind. He frowned down at the remains of his second glass of wine. "And Buckingham?"

Wolsey didn't answer right away. More could feel the suspicion oozing from him as much as he felt it dripping from the tone of his own voice.

"He's in France," Wolsey finally replied.

More breathed a sigh of relief. "Good," he said, feeling like something was finally going right. "Let's keep him there." Forever, he added silently.

Never had Thomas spent a night at Court. The Palace was a moral cesspit, and he had no particular desire to be there at all, unless he had to be. It was the King, whom he had loved like a son, who kept him coming back. But now, it was the Queen, too. Regardless of what he thought or how he felt, he knew he had to do this for her sake, and her child's.

"A Regency will be required," he said to Wolsey. "No matter what gender this child will be, it will need a Counsel. Catherine as Regent, and I am sure she will offer us both a position – once she has calmed down after being lied to for three months."

"But Thomas," replied Wolsey, leaning across the desk, "first we need to get the child out alive and on the throne – so to speak-"

"We've had child King's before, perhaps we are being too-"

"We've never had a foetus Monarch before, More!" Wolsey retorted sharply. "We must do this. Morally wrong, but for the right reasons. Catherine must not find out. No one must find out until the new monarch is born and known to be alive and healthy."

More's thoughts darkened. "And what if it isn't?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

A muscle jumped in Wolsey's jaw as he gulped. "Duke of Buckingham-"

"No!" More was emphatic, bringing the palm of his hand down hard on the table to make his point.

Wolsey shrugged. "Harry Courtenay; he's Henry's first Cousin. The son of a Princess, and the Grandson of a King. If the Queen delivers a healthy baby girl, we could even marry them off. He's still only fifteen or sixteen. He is young enough. We would just have to wait for another twenty years for an heir."

"And he could be Regent on her behalf," added More, finally beginning to relax, but sending up a silent prayer for a healthy boy all the same.

"Precisely," replied Wolsey, ever the pragmatist. "Look, no one need ever know we had this conversation. But, just like the lies we're spinning the Queen, we had to have it. Don't feel bad about yourself."

More sat back in his seat and sighed. Wolsey was right. Three months of subterfuge was a small price to pay if they avoided a war of succession. Thankfully, one other rival claimant had obliged them by dying in the battle of Pavia not long before. More was content to take that as a sign from God that they were doing the right thing.

* * *

Pontefract Castle was vast. The Chambers were wide, deep like caverns, and draughty. Catherine lay awake at nights listening to the wind blowing through the rafters, and feeling the baby kicking inside her. She could feel it growing bigger, and stronger. Limbs appeared, poking through the skin. Identifiable parts of the anatomy. Tiny, but vigorous. The time was drawing close. She could feel it. But more often, she would lie awake at night and think of the Counsel.

"They're lying to me, Maria," she said, late one night.

Maria stopped fussing with the bed hangings, and gave Catherine a maddeningly sympathetic look. "I'm sure it's no so, Your Grace."

She responded with a dry laugh. "There is no plague," she said. "We've been here for three weeks now, and not one person has actually died from it. No one mentions it."

"Hush, madam. Nothing is afoot."

Catherine almost suspected that Maria was part of it; whatever it was. "I won't, Maria," she replied impatiently. "Something is wrong. I can feel it." Maria did not reply, but she understood. Catherine could see it in her eyes. "You feel it, too."

Maria began to smoothing down the bed covers, but Catherine could tell she was struggling against her inner self. She too could feel that everything was wrong.

"We have to get out of here, and back to London as soon as possible," she insisted.

"We're not prisoners, Your Grace," replied Maria as she finished with her fussing for the evening. "Let us wait one more week for word from the Privy Counsel, and then see where we're at."

Catherine made no further argument. But she knew she was being played for a fool by those people. Reluctantly, she lay back in bed, and looked up at the canopy. It had occurred to her that something had happened to Henry. There had been no word from him in months, despite her victory over the Scots. He didn't even write to say thank you for the bloodied surcoat. She didn't fall to earth in the last shower, and she wished the Counsel realised that.


	4. Tragedy and Farce

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your input means a lot – so thank you! The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Thanks again for reading, and reviews are always welcome.

History Fan: The next in line is Henry VIII's next of kin. In a few story months that will be his and Catherine's child. Hence the secrecy surrounding his death.

* * *

**Chapter Four: Tragedy and Farce.**

The surface of the loch looked like liquid gold; reflecting perfectly the glow of the sun as it set low over Linlithgow Palace. Margaret watched from the window of the Presence Chamber, her goblet of warmed wine cradled in the palms of her hands as her thoughts drifted away, taking her far from the voices of the men who talked at her from behind her back. Her marriage had been one of convenience. A strengthening of the new born Tudor dynasty that was lacking in both credibility and stability. They were children. But they grew up, and they grew close. Then, he was gone. And Margaret found herself alone again.

Together, she and James would walk together along the edge of the loch, and watch the sunset – just like it was at that moment. Margaret blinked away a tear as she turned to face the Counsellors who were still in the room with her. She found them again, standing in a semi-circle all looking at her and expecting answers. She gulped down a mouthful of wine to steady her nerves and hastily thought of something to say in response to the questions she had not listened to.

"My Lords," she addressed them, her gaze darting over each anxious face in turn. "Given the … delicacy … of our situation, I think it only wise that we make peace with my sister, Queen Catherine." The word 'sister' almost stuck in her throat; it made her stomach churn. But her sudden loathing of Queen Catherine was outweighed by the loyalty she still owed to her country of birth.

The men moved back, shuffling their feet against the dusty floorboards and rustling their papers the same way game birds ruffle their feathers when threatened. Finally, one of them dares speak again. Cautiously, he asked: "Your Grace intends upon taking a place on the Regency Counsel, then? I mean, that kind of a decision-"

Margaret fixed the man in a hard stare, straightening her back and ready for a fight if need me. "Of course," she retorted shrilly, "the King is my son, and my late husband – your King – decided on it himself."

She wondered, for a moment, if they seriously expected her to wilt away into the background and let them do all the ruling. Their ill concealed sighs of impatience confirmed her suspicions and she almost laughed. She may have been Queen of Scotland, but she was still a Tudor, too. Her son, King James V, is an infant. He had barely taken his first steps, and if these men had their way, he would soon be learning to dance, and only to a tune of their own composition. Someone needed to be on hand to dispense common sense, and it may as well have been her. But, she knew well how to handle them.

"England currently has a Queen Regent," she pointed out. "If you think me no match for her-"

"That's not it at all, Your Grace!"

Margaret smiled at the man who'd just spoken; satisfied at his sudden enthusiasm. Whatever England had, then Scotland had to have it only twice as good. She looked the Bishop up and down. "Well, then, we are in perfect agreement," she concurred amiably, "and I believe the French Ambassador is waiting for an audience?"

The man had been announced almost an hour ago, and been kept waiting in the Outer Chambers while state business dragged on inside. It was hardly the treatment that such men were accustomed to. But, as unhappy as the Counsellors looked to be leaving her unguarded and off their leash, they gathered their sombre black cloaks of mourning around their shoulders, and backed away with deep bows.

Once the last man had left the Chamber, Margaret returned to her seat up on the dais. One of her Ladies, Eleanor Campbell, approached from the ante-chamber to the left of the Hall. Margaret held out the pewter goblet that was still in her hands for Eleanor to take – which she did with a small curtsey.

"Your Grace, Archibald Douglas of Angus requests an audience, as well," Lady Eleanor whispered confidentially into the Queen's ear.

The two women exchanged a weary look; Margaret rolled her eyes. "Will this ever end?" she sighed. "Show him in once the Ambassador has left."

Lady Eleanor inclined gracefully from the Queen's side, and as she disappeared through the side door, the main door swung open. Monsieur De La Motte didn't look happy. His broad frame was expanded further by the thick furs that swathed his shoulders; his face, however, was a curious expression of pale reticence, despite the excited glitter in his blue eye.

"Excellency," Margaret greeted him with her hand extended. "Enter."

He strode down the Chamber with a confidence that belied the hesitancy in his expression, and kissed the Queen's hand. "Your Grace," he returned the formal greeting. "It's an honour to be back in Scotland, and I have what I think is advantageous news for Your Grace."

A frown furrowed Margaret's brow as she listened to him. Given the desperation of the Scottish situation anything, no matter how small, could be seen as advantageous. Things really couldn't get much worse. "Really?" she asked, gesturing for him to sit. "Given that the King is an infant, and the nobility has been all but wiped out; add to that this is done to us by my own sister in law, things really cannot get much worse."

The Ambassador paused as one of the Pages poured him a goblet of wine. Once the boy had retreated back into the shadows, he turned to look at Margaret. Her stomach tensed, and feeling of unease chilling her. These ominous pauses were never good, no matter how the man was about to sugar coat his news.

"There are rumours at the French Court," he said. Rumours at Court – French or otherwise – was not news.

"About?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

De La Motte lowered his gaze, studied his fingernails intently. "That your brother, the King of England, is dead," he reported bluntly.

The feeling of unease hardened into shock, it felt like a punch in the stomach. "No," she stated flatly; a knee-jerk reaction. "You can't come here at a time like this bothering me with rumours from the French Court. If that is all you have then you may leave – we have no further business to discuss."

Margaret hadn't noticed her hands shaking. She clasped them together, looking anywhere except at the Ambassador she rose to her feet. But she could still sense the man looking at her, fixing her with those blue eyes with that expression of diplomatic benignity. He didn't rest on his laurels.

"I am sorry for your loss," he said, not sounding it in the least. "But these are the reports that have reached the King of France. Louis is taking this seriously. If it is true; this could be what the Scots have been waiting for for centuries, now."

"And what does Louis expect us to do?" asked Margaret, rounding on the Ambassador. "Thanks to Catherine, I have no army. Thanks to Catherine, my son who is not yet two years old is now King – so even if I had an army, there is no one to lead them. If – and that is a big 'if' – Henry is dead, then Catherine is pregnant. England has no Salic Law, so whatever she whelps will be the next monarch of England. And Excellency, I have no stomach for further fights, with Catherine, or anyone else. This is the end."

Henry wasn't dead; he couldn't be. She repeated it over and over. But, Louis was no fool; he knew better than to listen to Court gossip. She willed the Ambassador to dismiss this the same way she did, and his disregard of her hidden feelings maddened her. All he said was: "Think of the possibilities."

"England and Scotland united under one Crown – James's crown," he said, speaking low and confidentially. "With you as head of the Regency Counsel."

Margaret sucked in a deep breath to steady her temper. "Excellency, we're grateful for the reports of French gossip, we really are. But until I know for certain – one way or another – I can make no final decision. Now, if you excuse me, I have people waiting."

She lied. It was only Angus. Archibald Douglas; a youth so feckless even his uncle had written him off a wastrel. But, because of the battle of Flodden, and with a Grandfather who was dying fast, he was set to become the next Earl of Angus. She had to give him an audience. To her relief, De La Motte got up and left with a perfunctory bow. Obviously, the reaction to his gossip was not what he had hoped for.

* * *

Harry Courtenay looked out of the carriage window at the rolling Yorkshire countryside. He had never been so far north before, and the journey seemed to be taking longer than his journey to France. But it was worth it. His Governess had told him about Yorkshire, and made it sound like a barren wilderness, inhabited by cave dwellers who didn't speak a word of French or English; not like the cosmopolitan Southerners did. Some even said that wolves stalked the bleak Yorkshire Moors, their strangled howls piercing the night and their razor teeth piercing the flesh of any unsuspecting cave dwellers who crossed their path.

But, what he saw when he looked out of the window was like something out of an illuminators manuscript: vivid, blazing autumnal colours beneath a wide, open sky of azure blue. The landscape was vast, rolling like the ocean made solid. True, there were few people and those who were around spoke in an almost unintelligible dialect, but they looked to Harry to be same as Southerners in every other respect. At least, he thought, if news of the King's death did leak out, and came this far north, then Catherine wouldn't understand a word of anyone who tried to tell her said.

He sat back in his seat, still a little disgruntled at being denied permission to ride horseback to carry out his mission to escort his Aunt, Lady Margaret Pole, to Pontefract to be with the Queen. She was at his side, picking at her embroidery – a smock for the new baby – patiently bearing his sighs of boredom and random observations. He looked at her in profile, noting how her auburn hair slipped the confines of her headdress, and how her nose seemed almost too long for her face. The Plantagenet nose – his mother called it, like it was some kind of Royal bearing that marked them out over mere mortals.

"Aunt," he said quietly, getting her attention.

The needle fingers fell still immediately. "Harry?" she replied, still studying the stitching in the smock.

"Will my mother be joining us at Pontefract, do you think?"

Finally, she looked at him. "I wouldn't have thought so," she replied, "she is happy where she is, and no trouble to anyone."

"So, we are being watched?"

"That's not what I said," she stated firmly. "We're the highest born subjects in the land. It is only right that we should be near the Queen. If they really didn't trust us they would have packed you off to the Tower, and I would never have been informed of the King's death. What troubles my conscience is lying to the Queen's face."

She was right, he thought, it would have been easily done. But the lying was a different matter. "Maybe we should tell her?" he ventured, looking away, trying to make it sound casual.

"I can perfectly understand why the news is not public," continued Margaret, following on from where Harry left off. "But the Queen is not exactly any old member of the public. She has a right to know..."

Harry took up the sentence. "I mean, what are they going to do? Wait for a few days after the baby is born, and then just drop it into a casual conversation that her husband has been dead for several months and no one bothered to tell her?"

The two of them were reaching an agreement. "If we let this façade trail on, then we're as bad as they are," she added. "And woe betide the poor, wretched fool who must break it to her Grace."

"We owe it to the Queen to be honest with her," he flatly concluded. Lady Margaret nodded. She was a Peeress in her own right, he thought, and if she agreed then he was in no position to gainsay. They were silent again. He heaved another sigh. "How long now?" he said. She snorted with laughter as she resumed her needlework.

* * *

It was getting late, but Catherine could not rest. If she lay down to try and steal a nap, the baby would immediately thrash about inside her. If she sat down to rest her swollen ankles, the baby would start off slowly. A turn here, and a kick there. It was if it was sensing the urgency levels of Catherine's need for sleep, and responding in the most awkward manner possible. So Catherine paced the rooms. The slow, steady movement seemed to sooth the child in her belly. If she was alone, she would reach into the front of her gowns, and massage the great swollen mass. It was then she would catch an arm, or a leg, or even the tiny body – and the discomfort was suddenly justified. The baby was real, and the baby was happening soon.

"Your Grace," the constantly soothing voice of Maria De Salinas piped up from a corner. "Why don't we go out and greet the Countess when she arrives?"

They had received word of Lady Salisbury's arrival by outrider two days prior. "Thank God you're not asking me to lie down again," Catherine laughed. "We could all do with the air."

Elizabeth Stafford helped Catherine with her cloak, and Maria placed herself in a strategic position at Catherine's side; acting as a mobile leaning post whenever the Queen needed it.

"The Countess will have come from Court," said Elizabeth, "maybe she will bring news of the French Campaign?"

"I pray it is so," answered Catherine as they set off a slow pace through the Queen's new chambers. "This silence worries me. They know I worry, and they just let it go on. It's been months since I heard anything from Henry, and I know he would have written if only to ask about the baby-"

"Your Grace," Maria interjected, "stay calm – for the baby."

Catherine squeezed Maria's arm for reassurance. "I am calm. But staying calm is not so easy when all this is happening."

There was nothing either Lady could say to disagree with her, and they were not about to lie to make her feel better. Instead, all they could do was divert her. Divert her attention from long, unpunctuated hours of tedium and waiting, and fill her mind with pretty and useless things. Together, the three of them took their time as they tried to remember the way to drawbridge of the Keep. The Castle was old; a sprawling fortress that straddled the hills overlooking the west facing country and the distant sea. It's primary function was as a defensive castle, meaning the doorways were all so low that they had to duck under them as they passed between the outer chambers that were situated in the towers.

The drawbridge was already down, and the portcullis raised, by the time the women emerged onto the forecourt. The Earl of Shrewsbury's son, Sir John, was already out there waiting for the new arrivals, too. He bowled low to the Queen, and greeted her pre-emptively.

"Still no word from France, Your Grace," he informed her. His father was out there with the King's Army. He, too, had been left in limbo.

"Thank you, Sir John," Maria called back as they walked over to join him by the stables.

"Is Lady Salisbury close by?" asked Catherine.

Her question was answered by the sound of approaching horses. An outrider in the Tudor livery galloped over the cobblestones, the horses iron shod feet clattering up a racket as he drew to a halt. He dismounted, and informed Sir John that the Countess was only minutes away as he handed the reigns of his horse to the stable boy. Catherine breathed a sigh of relief as the large carriage of the Poles finally appeared, drawn by two sturdy horses, over the drawbridge and beneath the portcullis. A Footman materialised from the shadows, his uniform miraculously spotless despite the dirt, and opened the carriage door, Lady Salisbury appeared, stooping under the low frame and unfolded herself upright on the cobbles just in front of Catherine.

"Your Grace," she beamed at the Queen, and dipped an elegant curtsey.

Catherine felt the familiar warmth of happiness at being reunited with someone she knew intimately as a friend, and took her in an embrace. "Margaret, welcome to Pontefract; it's a joy to have you with us."

Before she even released the Countess from her hug, movement caught Catherine's eye. Someone else inside the carriage. Someone she knew to be in France with King Henry. Harry Courtenay looked almost apologetic as he jumped down from the carriage; like he knew he was somewhere that was out of bounds to him. Margaret noticed, too. She extricated herself, and held out her hand to Harry.

"The Marquis of Exeter has accompanied me, I hope you don't mind?" she said, partly explaining his presence.

Catherine looked at him, still unsure of what to make of it. "My lord," she said, "you're no longer with the King? How come?"

The light was failing fast, but she could see the boy's gaze dart from Catherine to Margaret and back again. Like a child with something to hide. "I was sent ahead, Your Grace," he answered evasively.

But Lady Salisbury stepped in. "Perhaps we should go inside," she suggested, gesturing up the steps towards the door of the Keep. "We need to talk."

* * *

The King was no longer the best of company, but Charles Brandon knew he still had a duty to Henry. Leaving an anointed King on a slab in an unknown Church simply wasn't an option for him, or for the Duke of Buckingham. They had broken ranks, defied the orders of the Privy Counsel, and brought King Henry home any way. They had bought a coffin to transport the body from France back to England, and made it as far as Winchester. An embalmer had been procured, and told that he was working on the body of a Marquis, and the man carried out his grim work in the actual Cathedral.

Winchester. The fabled seat of Camelot.

"Do you think he bought the story?" Charles asked Edward Stafford as they waited, sat side by side in the pews facing the grand altar.

Buckingham raised a shadow of a smile. "I think he was wise enough to not ask questions."

Charles shrugged, a weary gesture of near defeat. "You heard them talking in the ports," he said. "Rumours are starting. This whole thing has been mishandled from the start. You know, I honestly though we'd meet a messenger from the Palace on the road, but nothing. It's like they're just pretending this hasn't happened."

He was becoming worked up again, and broke off his whispered tirade to draw in deep, steadying breaths.

Buckingham made an effort to sooth him. "Rumours are just rumours," he sagely stated, "they can do harm on their own. All we need to do is get the body back to London undetected, and we can talk business with the Privy Counsel."

Charles glanced sideways at the man, unsure of what he meant by 'business'. He didn't ask for clarification, though. Instead, he buried his face in his hands, and wished that whatever storm was coming would pass quickly. Anything to end this tragedy that was fast becoming a farce.

* * *

They talked alone. Lady Maria and Lady Elizabeth and been sent away on an errand in the kitchens with Harry Courtenay trailing after them like a lost dog. Catherine had wanted a word with him; to find out exactly what was going on in France. So Catherine retired with just Lady Salisbury, into the one of the large drawing rooms that made up her chambers. The windows let in the moonlight, the shutters not yet closed. The candles were lit, their flames making the shadows shift across the tapestries that covered the bare limestone walls. In the hearth, a new fire blazed. It was needed; the winter was closing in fast.

They were settled on plushly upholstered seats at the foot of which a large Grey Hound, one of the earl's pets, dozed. Catherine dismissed the servants once they had left decanters of spiced wine on the table by the fire.

"Any news from Court?" she asked, once they were alone and only the sound of the fire could be heard.

Margaret surprised her as she took her hand. "There is some news, Your Grace," she explained. Gentle, like she was addressing an invalid. "Catherine, the King has died. They say he died bravely; in the field, fighting against the French."

The words hit her like a blow to the head, like a rock fall. It left her stunned. She couldn't speak; nor move as her body went numb. As if to fill the terrible silence, the Countess continued to explain: "They didn't want to tell you until after the birth," she said. "They don't want to tell anyone until after the birth..."

But Catherine wasn't hearing her any more. The noise made by the Countess was just a buzz that washed over her as she grappled to comprehend what it all meant. She loved him. She had never loved anybody the way that she loved him, her golden Prince. He sounded to others like something from a Fairy Tale, or something straight from the pages of an Arthurian Legend. He had it all, but what he had above all things was promise. Promise of a future, and something better. It was that which brought on the tears. A choking sob to begin with, but descending swiftly into a torrential flood as she lay against Margaret's shoulder.

* * *

Linlithgow was silent. Too silent. The silence itself seemed to be keeping Queen Margaret awake. She could only ponder the irony. But in reality, the Ambassador's words were echoing in her head. She rolled over, thinking 'rumours'. But, she had to know. With the walls closing in on her, she rolled out of bed – not bothering to call any of her ladies, and dressed herself before sitting at a bureau to write a letter. It was time one of her men went on Embassy to London again.


	5. A Mission For Harry

**Author's Note:** Thank you, as always, to everyone who has read and reviewed this story; your feedback is greatly appreciated. As always the usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. For anyone curious about who plays who in this story, there is a link in my profile to a Flickr account with the cast pictures. Please read and review, thank you!

* * *

**Chapter Five: A Mission For Harry.**

The servants collected the dishes, wary of making too much noise as though it would upset the Queen's delicate equilibrium. Catherine watched them wearily from the corner of her eye, but her mind was on other things. Maria was sat at the opposite side of the table, having just polished off the last of the wheaten bread she was getting ready to go through the mandatory series of daily protests. She knew that Maria was just waiting for the lingering servants to vanish before starting. But the servants were lingering in the hope of picking up some gossip, and only hurried on when Maria shot them a sharp look. Catherine steeled herself for what was coming.

"It's too soon to return to your duties," said Maria, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. "The baby will be here any day now. You should be in confinement; instead you're summoning people and giving out orders, running the Kingdom. You must rest, Your Grace, for the baby and for you. I have been saying this for months now..."

Catherine let it all wash over her. Ever since the King's death had been made known to her, Maria had been saying the same thing on a daily basis. Rest; don't worry, let the Counsel sort it out. She trusted the Counsel to mind the state while she was away for the battle of Flodden, and been rewarded with secrecy and duplicity, and she wasn't about to let that happen again. But at nights, when no one else was around, Catherine let herself grieve. It was the only time she had for herself. She let the tears well in her eyes, and drip from her lashes onto the cotton pillowcases, and thought of him. But, if she thought of him all the time, she knew that she would fall apart. Then, the Kingdom would be in ruins.

Eventually, Maria's well meant diatribe was interrupted by the arrival of an Usher. "Your Grace," he addressed her with a neat bow. "Sir Henry Courtenay, Marquis of Exeter, has come at your command."

Maria huffed disapprovingly from across the table as she rose to her feet. Catherine ignored her, and turned to the Usher. "Show him in to the Presence Chamber, please," she replied.

When she turned back Maria was vanishing into an outer-chamber to be replaced by Elizabeth Stafford, dressed in sombre black as a mark of respect for the dead King. She curtsied low before crossing the room to Catherine's side. Together, they walked silently down the gallery to the Presence Chamber, where Harry Courtenay was already waiting for his audience with Catherine. He bowed low as she entered, and she held out her hand for him to kiss.

"Rise," she stated baldly, and walked up to the dais and sat beneath the cloth of estate that was hanging over an old wooden, high back chair.

He looked tired; older than his sixteen years. But still young. A nervous look in his eye as he lifted his gaze to meet hers, as though he thought he was in trouble. His shoulders were tense, hunched up as he wrung his cap in his hands, and shifted nervously from foot to foot. He didn't hold her gaze, either. She regarded him coolly for a moment. King Henry adored his Cousin, and Catherine had encouraged that bond of affection. But, she could guess at why Harry was suddenly so fearful around her.

"Harry," she addressed him more warmly, and raised a smile; gesturing to the seat at her side, "come and sit with me."

His gaze darted from her to the chair and back again. Hesitant, but he did as she asked.

"Elizabeth will pour us some light ale," she explained, nodding to the girl in black who was lingering at the side. "I want you to know that there is no blame on you, Harry." She noticed him sag with relief. She was right; he'd been afraid that she blamed him for what happened. After a pause, she continued: "But I need you tell me exactly what happened in France. I need to know what happened to my husband."

Suddenly, Harry looked tense again. She thought he was about to protest, but once Elizabeth had pushed a cup into his hands, the momentary distraction was enough to make him start talking regardless. Falteringly at first, but Catherine patiently coaxed the full story out of him. The sudden attack, the desperate fight that they put up to fend off the soldiers. Catherine's blood ran cold as she learned that her own father had not sent the troops he promised to Henry, and that the Emperor had ridden on far ahead of the English army.

"I tried to save him," Harry concluded, his eyes were misted with tears. "But the wound was too deep. He gave me his sword and coronet, and bade me fetch them to you. He told me to give you this, too." He reached into his jerkin, to some pocket inside, and produced a ring set with rubies and diamonds. The Coronation ring.

She took the ring, and bounced it in her palm. She was truly Queen Regent, now; the knowledge brought a peculiar loneliness to her heart. The proof that Henry was never coming back. She was alone, now. Before she knew it, the tears were once again slipping down her cheeks, landing in little diamanté drops on her swollen belly. Inside, the baby writhed violently, as if grief had suddenly crossed the placenta. Her vision blurred, but she recognised the a white cotton handkerchief that Harry was holding out to her.

"Thank you, Harry," she replied through her sobs, and dabbed delicately at the corners of her eyes.

"I miss him, too," Henry said, daring to reach out and take the hand of his Queen. "He was more like a father to me than a King."

She noticed that he, too, was crying. "Come here," she said, getting up and pulling him into a hug. There, they held each other, consoling each other for several minutes. When they let go, they looked at each other in a slightly embarrassed silence before catching on and laughing it off. Catherine linked her arm through his, and led him across the small Presence Chamber, to the large bay windows where they could sit and talk comfortably.

"I need you to do something for me, Harry," she said, quietly so that even Lady Elizabeth wouldn't hear them.

Harry looked suddenly alert, like a Greyhound that had suddenly caught the scent of blood. "Anything for you, Your Grace."

"I need you to go to London; to Windsor and secure the jewels that once belonged to Lady Margaret Beaufort, and leave them with my Chamberlain, Sir William Willoughby."

Harry's brow was creased in confusion. "Yes, Your Grace," he replied.

"They were supposed to be sent to Margaret, the Queen of Scots," Catherine explained, seeing his puzzlement. "James was demanding them before he died. Well, now, I never want her to have them; I am claiming them. While you're there, I want you to listen up for me. Speak to Wolsey, and More, and all the others on the Counsel. Find out what they're up to, and what plans they have."

Now there was a glitter of excitement in those vivid blue eyes. He looked ecstatic to have been chosen for what was as good as a spying mission. "I give you my word, Your Grace," he replied eagerly, almost bouncing in his seat. "I won't let you down, I swear."

She had to reach out and steady him. "One more thing," she said firmly, getting his full attention again. "If you see Princess Mary, please inform her gently of the death of the King. I sincerely doubt anyone from the Counsel will have bothered to include her. Be kind, and if she desires, please bring her to me, here."

Harry looked serious again. "I'll treat her as I would my own Sister," he assured her. "I will do everything you require of me. I swear."

He took her hand, and kissed it again. The audience was over, and the mission began. Orders were sent out for a horse to be saddled immediately, and provisions packed for the journey back to London. He was to go with just a small group of guides and guards. But, as Catherine walked with him to the gallery that led back to the Privy Chambers, Lady Elizabeth suddenly appeared, flushed in the face and deeply apologetic.

"Forgive me, Your Grace and My Lord," she blushed at the interruption. "But I beg of you, My Lord of Exeter, is there any word on my father, the Duke of Buckingham?"

A sudden wash of guilt swept over Catherine; she had entirely forgotten that Elizabeth's father was still out there somewhere in France. The girls rich, brown eyes glistened with tears that threatened to fall at any moment, and Catherine reached out to her.

Harry had to think for a second. "He's still in France, My Lady," he replied. "But he is safe and well, I assure you."

Breathless, Elizabeth gave a shaky nod of her head, evidently unable to speak.

"Harry," Catherine said, "when you get to London recall the Duke immediately, and send him here to escort Lady Elizabeth home. They have a wedding to plan."

Elizabeth's gaze shot up to the Queen, and she finally managed a weak smile. Catherine breathed easily again. The reminder of the wedding to the new Duke of Norfolk had given the girl something to be cheerful about. Harry agreed, bowed deeply to the two women, and backed away. Catherine thought that perhaps they should spend that day looking forward to Elizabeth and Thomas Howard's wedding.

* * *

Queen Margaret stifled a laugh as the Earl of Angus down a pint of mead in less than five seconds as a bet with the new Earl of Lennox. It was what had come to pass as entertainment at Linlithgow since the Battle of Flodden had been fought and lost. They had to do what they could to cheer each other along. So now they sat in the Great Hall, talking, drinking, remembering. Three months had passed. New Year was just around the corner. But the cloud of grief still lingered over head.

Archie Douglas had the advantage over Lennox. He was young, and strong. But, evidently, not able to hold his drink. He gagged, almost vomited as the last of the pint was choked down his throat. But Margaret couldn't help but laugh. He always made her laugh and smile when she was low, and lately her lows had been very low. Her husband had been one loss; her treasured baby brother was quite another.

She could feel the memories of them both creeping up on her. To banish them she distracted herself with the drinking contest that was being slogged out in front of her. She leapt to her feet, and clapped her hands to bring the men to her attention. She fixed each man in turn with a penetrative stare, weighed them both up carefully.

"Hmmmm..." she said, contemplatively, eyes narrowed. "I think …. I know …. I declare my lord of Angus the winner!"

Her announcement was met with more groans than cheers, but Angus was ecstatic. He punched the air in victory, and Margaret suspected he secretly wished it was Lennox's face he was punching. The two had been fighting like snarling dogs from the first moment they had met.

Lennox was quick to protest. "Your Highness will find that Angus nearly died in his endeavour to win your favour-"

"I was not!" retorted Angus, looking scandalised.

Margaret sighed impatiently. "I think you two need to be separated," she groaned. "Come on ladies, let's take the earl of Angus for a walk."

She left the head of the trestle table they were sat at, and virtually dragged Archibald from his seat. He feigned reluctance, at first. But soon he was trotting behind Margaret out of the Great Hall, and into the open air of the forecourt. After a day cooped up inside, Margaret had yearned to breathe the open air, again. The Ladies kept a respectful distance, so the Earl and the Queen could talk privately, without them being alone together.

"My brother is dead," she confided in Archibald as they drifted over to the stables. "The Ambassador was right."

Archibald took a deep breath, as though clearing his drink befuddled head, before answering. "My condolences, Your Highness," he said, lightly placing a hand on her shoulder. "The King of England was an honourable man, that I do know."

An honourable man. Margaret repeated the words over in her head, and turned to look at the earl as they came to halt at a stout Mare in one of the stalls. He looked earnest enough. "You go rather far for a Scotsman," she remarked quietly. "Anyone would think you're trying to charm me." She distracted herself by plaiting the horses mane, blushing like a school maid.

"I speak true," he insisted gently. "From what I knew of your brother, he was a good and brave man. He must have been brave, to survive a childhood with you!"

Margaret gasped in mock offence and landed a playful swat on his arm. The horse whinnied, disgruntled by the sudden intrusion upon its oat chewing time. "Even the horse is shocked," Margaret pointed out.

Archibald stopped; turned quickly serious as he leaned back against the stable wall. "In all honesty, Margaret, have you seriously considered where this leaves you?"

The smile on Margaret's face melted as quickly as it formed. She dropped the strands of mane she was plaiting and turned to look sharply at him. "Not you as well, Archie," she sighed, "James is only a year old-"

"But the Counsel-"

"No!" she interjected. "Don't interrupt me, I am still your Queen. James is still a child, and holding on to Scotland for him will be quite enough-"

Archibald cut her off again, regardless of her warning. "But listen," he insisted, stepping closer to her. "You're already a Queen, and you're English. Wouldn't the English pick you over the Spaniard any time?"

"Of course they would, you foolish boy!" she retorted hotly. "She may be a Spaniard, but that's an English King or Queen she has in her belly-"

"If she carries it to term!" he snorted.

Anger flared, making Margaret's face flush as red as her hair. "Don't you dare interrupt me!" she spat at him. "You'd do well to work your charms on your colleagues on the Counsel rather than trying to urge me on to European domination. They think you rash; irresponsible. They want you demoted, and they want me to do it."

Archibald looked suddenly chastened. "You wouldn't-"

"I would have no choice," she reminded him. "Nor would I spare you just because of how I feel for you. You must earn your keep, sir."

She hadn't meant for this to happen. Not so soon after James's death. But the more people warned her off him, the more she fell for him. The more he misbehaved, the more he excited her. Nothing had happened; she hadn't allowed it to. But they were inching closer to the fire. Inching forwards, one step closer all the time. Now, she felt guilty and ashamed for upbraiding him. She could feel the hurt pride and dented bluster emanating from him. Even in the failing light, she could see the boyish pout.

"Forgive me if I spoke out of turn, Your Grace," he murmured, shuffling his feet in the dirty straw. "You know that I love you, and want only to further your cause and help you be the best you can be-"

Margaret pressed a finger to his lip to quieten him. "I know," she assured him gently. "I know you do. Look, Henry never sent the jewels that were part of my dowry. They belonged to my Grandmother, who gave them to me specifically. Now, Catherine owes me those jewels. Let's see if she gives them to me, and take it from there."

Silence. A tense pause. "Is that it?" he finally asked.

Margaret rolled her eyes. The man knew nothing of subtlety. "If she does what I think she'll do, then it could become something of a diplomatic incident."

He still didn't catch on. She could tell. She could almost hear the cogs and wheels of his mind grinding up a gear; trying to get the finer point. He gave up. "I trust you," he replied. "The French will help you, too. Don't forget them; they have an old bone to pick with England."

The French. They were Scotland's friend so long as Scotland remained as England's enemy. Margaret knew that, and she thought it a pity that the Scots themselves hadn't yet cottoned on. But she wanted to no more arguing; they had just moments left before the others at their party realised they were missing for an inappropriate length of time. She reached up, and wrapped her arms around his neck. "What do you want for Christmas?" she asked. "And don't say 'the English Crown'; you're not having it."

* * *

It was New Year by the time Harry reached Windsor Castle. He'd stopped off at the Palace of Eltham to inform Princess Mary's Governess of the death of the King. The news, he decided, would be better coming from someone close to her, rather than from him. But from there, it was straight to Windsor. The old Palace was coated in the years end snowfall. A marzipan layer that coated the turrets, and the icicles that hung like dagger points from the guttering, glittering dangerously in the weak, distant sunshine.

Beside the snow, everything looked the same. He made his way inside, ignoring the sidelong glances of the guards, and made his way to the offices of Thomas Wolsey. He seemed to have ingratiated himself further into the inner sanctum of the Privy Counsel in the months since the death of the King. Furthermore, rumours about the King were beginning to circulate. The people were beginning to wonder why he hadn't returned from France – especially since the fighting season was long over.

However, gaining access to Wolsey was a lot easier than the last time he tried. Instead of being met with recalcitrant Yeomen, he was shown inside a plushly furnished office by a soft-footed servant. Wolsey was sat behind a large, mahogany desk, head bent over letters and papers with seals from royal houses all over Europe. The servant stepped deftly around the desk, and whispered intimately in Wolsey's ear; just a soft murmur, Harry could make out nothing. But Wolsey stopped, looked up at him, and smiled pleasantly. The glow of the office fire suited him; the man was a born bureaucrat.

"My Lord of Exeter," the man almost purred like a cat. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Harry stepped closer, helped himself to one of the seats opposite Wolsey and perched nervously on the edge. He waiting, heart beat hammering against his ribs, for the servant to vanish to wherever it was Wolsey's creatures hid. He and Margaret Pole had acted in defiance of the whole of Counsel, and he had a feeling that delicate toes had been stepped on. Meanwhile, Wolsey was still smiling across the table at him, his hands folded and his expression politely attentive.

"The Queen knows the truth," he stated bluntly, "we told her everything."

Only the briefest of shadows crossed Wolsey's face; a flicker of dismay or anger – Harry couldn't tell which. But the benevolent smile remained firmly in place.

"How did Her Highness take the news?" Wolsey asked, his tone still as smooth as velvet.

Harry shrugged. "How else would she take it?" he asked. "Like a Queen who's been lied to for months. She was angry, hurt and completely devastated."

"That's regrettable."

Catherine had always distrusted Wolsey, and was suspicious of the hold he had on King Henry. Now Harry was beginning to understand why. "Is that all?" he asked, leaning across the desk. "It's more than regrettable, and you'd do well to write to her and tell her what has been happening in her enforced absence. Explain to her why she's been deliberately prevented from returning to London, and why her husband – who was your King, in case you needed reminding – has been denied a proper burial. This should all have been done by now."

Finally, Wolsey's expression changed and Harry felt that he was getting somewhere. "Surely Her Highness understands that she was not told because of the potential danger to her Heir," Wolsey replied with a strained calmness. "As soon as we have the baby safely delivered then a fitting burial with all due ceremony will take place. It's already being planned – here-" he broke off to rifle through a large stack of papers " - I can show you." He pushed them over to Harry, and he glanced down at them briefly.

"Can I at least show these to the Queen?" he asked, looking back at the Chaplain. "All she wants is news; to be kept informed. That, and she wants the Beaufort Jewels secured and delivered to her."

Wolsey paused, evidently thinking over the request. "Take the plans, by all means," he replied. "But the jewels … We need to make peace with Scotland, especially now that-"

"But the Queen wants them," Harry insisted firmly. He had his instructions from Catherine, and he was deviating from them for no man.

Wolsey shrugged. "I'll have them secured and sent north with a guard," he said. "But, I am asking you to speak with Her Grace, and perhaps suggest she may like to compromise with the Queen of Scots."

"Sounds fair to me," Harry replied. "One more thing, though. The Queen has summoned His Grace, the Duke of Buckingham. His daughter, Lady Elizabeth, requires his presence."

"Very well," Wolsey was trying to remain affable. "Anything else?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact there is," replied Harry, getting to his feet. "The Queen entered her confinement shortly before the New Year. When the baby is born, she will come straight back to London, and immediately begin her duties as head of the regency counsel."

He had made his point, and told Wolsey what the Queen intended on doing, and was about to leave before he could argue the point. But, just as he got up and Wolsey was about to say something, the servant entered again; a small parchment envelope in his hand. They were both taken by surprise. The servant handed over the letter, and left again without so much as a word to either of them.

"Wait there," said Wolsey, gesturing to Harry to sit back down.

He opened the letter, and read it through with a sigh. "You visited the Princess too, then?" he asked, glancing over the top of the parchment.

Harry looked up, surprised. "What?" Inside, his nerves flickered painfully. "I didn't speak with her, I asked her Governess to tell her. I thought it would be for the best."

Wolsey smiled. "It's all right," he said. "But the Princess has lit a bonfire with all of her French gowns, and banned all French products from her household. She is threatening to raise an army herself."

Harry snorted with laughter. "I thought she had come to harm," he replied, suddenly relieved.

Wolsey folded the letter away and slid into a drawer in his desk. "Look, I don't want to make an enemy of the Queen," he said, "I am not her enemy. Tell her, a delegation is on it's way to escort her back to London as soon as she is ready. Pray God she will be back with a healthy King in her arms. But, Exeter, I want you to do something else for me."

Curiosity gripped him, and despite his earlier misgivings, Wolsey was starting to grow on him. "What?" he asked, leaning forwards again.

"You obviously have a way with Princesses," Wolsey explained. "I want you to go to Scotland for me. Is that agreeable?"

"Scotland?" he asked, dumbstruck. "To see my Cousin, the Queen?"

Wolsey smiled that crocodile smile again. "I suspect she already knows of her brother's death through her contacts at the French Court. Now, I need to know what's going on there," he said. "She will trust you. She misses her English relatives, and I think she will welcome you. Go there, and see if you can find anything out. Go to Queen Catherine first, and relay what I have told you, and tell her of your new mission. Then straight to Edinburgh."

"Very well," Harry agreed, excited to be going on another mission so soon. "I will be in touch from Pontefract, and again from Scotland."

"Excellent," Wolsey replied. "Also, one more message for Queen Catherine. The King's body has been brought to London by Charles Brandon and the Duke of Buckingham. The rest of the army is being withdrawn from France as we speak, seeing as the French probably already know of the death. Buckingham will go with you when you ride out again, seeing as he is needed there."

Harry thought the meeting had gone well. He reached across the table, and shook Wolsey's hand before leaving the office. Outside, in the outer-chamber, the servant was lingering. Their eyes met briefly as he passed on his way, a look that Harry didn't altogether trust. Still, they nodded cordially to one another, a murmured 'good day and God speed'. His lodgings were close by, something Harry was grateful for after several weeks on increasingly difficult roads, and tense meetings and creepy servants were soon forgotten.

* * *

When Catherine had reached the stage of Confinement, she felt as though a milestone had been reached. She had carried her baby to full term, and all she had to do now was wait. God was favouring her, she could feel it. Even in the glutinous dark, she could feel a presence around her that was not of this world. She slept, too. She slept like she hadn't slept in months. Maria, Elizabeth and Lady Salisbury were amazed at the change that had come over her since her confinement began.

"I thought you were going to make life difficult," Maria had said on their fourth day. "I thought that you would insist on holding Counsel meetings from the bed, and keeping the Seal ring under your pillow where the relics should be."

Catherine laughed, batted her arm playfully. "The baby comes first now," she assured her old friend.

Then, in mid January, it began. She couldn't tell what time of day it was. There were no clocks in the room, and the windows were kept blocked at all times. Guided by the glow of the roaring fire, she slowly paced the wooden floorboards, and timed her own contractions. They were slow at first. Creeping cramps that crawled up her abdomen and wrung the breath from her body. Hours apart, but inching closer together as the hours ticked by. She had to stop, and grab the edge of a dresser to steady herself, and breathe deeply, riding the pain out. Then she would pace again.

Inside the chamber it was strangely calm; an eerie calm that she thought came before a storm. But, even through the firmly shut doors, she could just hear Maria and Margaret barking out the orders to the household staff. That was obviously where the storm was happening. Inside, Elizabeth let herself be used as a support as Catherine continued her pacing.

"It'll be all right, Your Grace," said Elizabeth, counting her steps along with Catherine.

Catherine smiled. "I know," she replied with confidence.

Hours, possibly days, could have gone past by the time the contractions moved to within minutes of each other, and the storm of childbirth had finally breached her doors. The midwives, servants, and ladies buzzed like angry bees in and out of the room, carrying buckets of hot water and linen cloths to wash the Queen down when her sweating got too much. Lady Maria had a damp cloth pressed permanently to her brow, a coolness in a living furnace that she clung to desperately.

The contractions were unlike anything she could remember from the last time. But throughout it all, no matter how excruciating the pain, she knew that it was going to be all right. She could feel her weary mind begin to slip in the narrow space between the waves of pain. She would close her eyes, and Henry would come to her. She could feel him as if he were there with her, even if she could not see him. At the height of it, the contractions merged into one great wall that was bearing down on her. She summoned what strength she had left, and bore down with all her might. A reliquary was gripped in her hands, gripped so hard she felt the skin break and the warm, sticky blood ooze between her fingers. She screamed out, a shrill cry of pain that suddenly broke off when there was a rush and gasp as the baby slid out into the hands of the waiting midwife. It was over in the blink of an eye.

The women all held their breath. The moment immediately following the birth drew itself out interminably. Catherine couldn't hold out though. Her strength was flagging, and her body screamed for sleep. Her eyelids were closing, but she just heard the midwife call out: "Long live the King," as she was about to give up.

"A Boy?"

"It's a boy!"

The babies cry filled the air. It was strong, healthy, and male. That was all Catherine needed to know.


	6. A New Era

**Author's Note:** Thank you, as ever, to everyone who has read, reviewed, favourited and followed this story; it is very much appreciated. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Lady Aislin is, however, my own creation. A note on Irish translations; my Gaelic is far from perfect, so I apologise to any readers who spot any mistakes. The English translation will be in a foot note at the bottom of the page.

Please read and review, thank you.

* * *

**Chapter Six: A New Era  
**

The spires of York Minster vanished in the fog that fell like a funeral shroud over the city on the morning of the new King's baptism. Catherine clutched him close to her breast as the footmen provided by the Earl of Shrewsbury assisted her in disembarking from the carriage that had brought her down from Pontefract, and looked about her. The people who gathered at the gates of the Cathedral cheered as she appeared, but the gesture was a muted one. Proclamations had been read out all over England and Calais, but the shock announcement of Henry VIII's death and Henry IX's birth seemed only to be seeping in gradually.

Catherine had her ever present ladies trailing after her as she made her way inside. Elizabeth Stafford, Margaret Pole, and Maria De Salinas; each one carrying the Queen's long black train that matched all of their long black gowns. They were not just Christening the new King, but mourning the old one at the same time. An affair so muted and hurried that only a handful of the English nobility had made it to Pontefract in time.

The only thing that lifted Catherine's spirits was the arrival of Princess Mary from Eltham Palace. She arrived with her Ladies and Governess, all swathed in black, but bearing rich gifts for the infant King. Catherine knew that it would have taken a lot more than bad weather and impassable roads to prevent Thomas Wolsey from putting an appearance, and at his side was Sir Thomas More. Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham had arrived at Pontefract several days before, accompanied by Harry Courtenay. But even Courtenay had to hurry away to Scotland on Wolsey's business, and was therefore absent from the day's proceedings. The Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Howard newly instated, had made it, too. He was waiting inside the Cathedral for Elizabeth to finish her duties so they could bear witness together.

As Catherine entered the Cathedral, she make out the Archbishop of Canterbury through a haze of purifying incense smoke that drifted across the south transept. Catherine paused in the aisle, and handed the baby to Lady Margaret Pole. Edward Stafford moved to her side and took the King's silk and velvet christening gown. Together they would act as Godparents to the new King.

'He'll be safe with us,' Lady Salisbury assured Catherine in a whisper as she balanced the baby delicately in her arms.

Catherine raised a smile. 'Take care of him,' she replied, not doubting for a second that she really would be negligent, she just felt compelled to say it.

Henry had slept through the whole morning, and only briefly squirmed and grizzled as he was transferred from his mother's arms to the Countesses. As soon as Margaret had a secure grip on him he settled straight back down again, eyes closed and curled up as though unused to freedom from the womb.

'Your Grace,' said Edward Stafford, taking Catherine's elbow. 'Come and sit down, the Ceremony will take an age.'

He was right. As soon as Catherine was settled into one of the back pews, she watched like a hawk as her son was carried to the font before the altar. Up until that moment she had not relinquished him for a second, except at nights when exhaustion forced them apart. Now that she had him, she seemed to spot dangers lurking in every nook and around every corner. She caught her breath as the baby was lowered over the font, and tried to stop herself from imagining him being dropped right into it and hitting his head on the stone basin. She watched the Archbishop sprinkle crystal holy water on to his head, and had to repeatedly assure herself that it had only been gently warmed, and not boiled to scald him. She almost died when the moment came to place a lit candle in the baby's hand, and rest him in the open pages of a Bible.

But, at the end, when the baby was held up high in the air by his Godfather, Edward Stafford, Catherine almost burst with pride.

'I baptise thee Henry, King of England, Ireland, and France,' the Archbishop's voice rang out clearly over the small congregation. 'In the name of God and of Saint George.'

A sigh of relief swept over the whole Cathedral. At that moment, a hand seemed to materialise from nowhere, and rest itself on top of Catherine's own, making her jump with shock. But when she turned in her seat, it was only to find that Princess Mary had slid down to her side while she was transfixed by the ceremony.

'I didn't mean to startle you,' said Mary, apologetically. 'I just wanted to let you know how sorry I am; for your loss is as great as my own.'

Catherine finally felt herself breathing freely with relief again. 'Thank you,' she replied. 'Look, come back to London with me, and come and stay at Court with us. You can't hide away at Eltham, and I'd like you with me.'

Even through the fine muslin veils that shrouded both their faces, Catherine could see the glitter of excitement in Mary's eye, and the smile on her face. 'I'd be honoured, Your Grace,' she replied low, still trying to sound sombre and dignified. Catherine gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, and turned back to the ceremony. The King was being returned to her, and it was finally over; time to take him home at last.

* * *

Harry Courtenay had long since kissed goodbye to the prospect of a family reunion; it was his only regret about being sent north to Scotland. As he crossed the rocky terrain that lay close to the Scottish border it began to feel as though he had left his mother and elder sister somewhere on another continent on the far side of the planet, rather than in Exeter. But he knew full well that there would be a price to pay if he wanted to serve his Queen and his Country, and this was it. It was swapping castles and palaces for some of the most inhospitable lands he had ever ventured across.

But once they reached Edinburgh, and with Linlithgow in sight, the journey became smoother and easier. It taken a month, several horses, thrice as many horse shoes and several wasted hours hanging around Farriers yards to get there. But Linlithgow itself was beautiful. A large, sprawling Castle sitting on the banks of a loch that commanded scenes of breathtaking beauty. Finally, he could understand a little of why the Scots were so protective of what they had.

Once he had been rowed across the loch by a local boatman, they disembarked on a wharf just beyond the keep. There was a more orthodox drawbridge, but his guides had recommended the boat trip to take in the full scale of the beauty. But from that point on, it was back to business. The day was wearing on, and he had yet to be formally presented to the Queen, his cousin, Margaret. He was led first to his chambers, by servants bearing torches that flickered against the already well lit passageways. The corridors were dry and solid, not damp and musty cold like the English castles that were badly in need of repairs.

There was just one unnerving difference between the English and Scottish Courts that unsettled Harry, however. That was its emptiness. The English Court was the nerve centre of the country, with hundreds of people from all walks of life thronging through every passageway and gallery. From humble servants to great lords. It was a riot of colour and music, and art all mixed in with the smell from the kitchens and the press of human flesh. Linlithgow, however, was silent and only the shadows filled the galleries.

Eventually, he was led to a small set of chambers and shown inside. He turned to thank the guards who had escorted him through the labyrinthine Castle, but it was clear the man couldn't speak a word of English or French. He bowed instead, a gesture that resulted in nothing more than a crimson blush. Harry could only hope the lasting impression was a good one. After that, he found himself alone again. His one bag had been left in the corner. The room was dominated by a large tester bed. There was a large set of drawers for his clothes, and a small ante chamber where he could wash. Beyond that was a privy. Basic, but more than enough for his needs. The fire was lit in the hearth, but the water had gone cold. But he endured it for the sake of a good wash, and a shave. Anything to rid himself of the accumulated dirt of a month on the roads.

He emerged from the small washing chamber after an hour of scrubbing, topless and with the waist of his breeches open, ready to get changed. Evidently, the young maid who'd entered the chamber unheard and unnoticed was as shocked to see him as he was to find her there. They both froze like trapped animals, staring at each other all saucer eyed from across the small room. Then, as if she'd gathered her scattered wits, she clapped one hand over her eyes. She dropped the linens she had in her arms, but in her free hand she was still clutching a letter. She held it out towards him, silently waving it at him and inching blindly forwards.

'Forgive me madam,' he blurted out as he dived forwards to take the letter from her. 'I didn't hear you come in, and if I'd known I would have made myself decent. This wasn't deliberate, I swear!'

But the girl didn't seem to be listening. She thrust the letter into his chest as soon as he was near enough, and began to blindly grope around the floor for her dropped linens. Harry stuffed the letter in the back pocket of his ever falling breeches and immediately dropped down to his haunches to help with the linen.

'I've got it!' he tried to assure her. 'Please, let me do that!'

Again, she didn't seem to notice. He wondered if she was mute, or just slow. But nonetheless, he gathered up the linens and bundled them haphazardly into her one free arm. He put his hand on her shoulder, and guided her towards the door. "Maybe next time you'll try knocking," he thought to himself, but the poor girl's reaction prevented him from actually saying it aloud. He opened the door, and almost pushed her through it and into the arms of a heavy, matronly lady who was waiting on the other side, seemingly for the girl. This third woman's eyes widened in shock at his state of undress. But unlike her more modest charge, she didn't bother to cover her eyes. She looked him up and down, a mischievous smile playing on her lips and a twinkle in her playful blue eyes. She was old enough to be his grandmother and he felt himself flushing at the face.

'You must excuse me ladies,' he blustered as he hurried to get the door closed, 'I don't look like this all the time.'

Already, the young girl was hurrying away down the corridor and Harry slammed the door. It was then that he realised that the girl was dressed beautifully. Her gown was simple – old fashioned by English standards – but it was made of black silk. Far too nice for a servant. The second woman looked suspiciously like a chaperone. He reached into his back pocket, and pulled out the letter. It was from Queen Margaret, but surely even Queen Margaret wouldn't be sending a noblewoman to carry a message that a servant could deliver.

He read it through. A mandatory welcome to the Scottish Court, and a time for their first formal introduction the following morning. Then, a footnote at the bottom: "Please excuse the bearer of this letter - Lady Aislin – She is not long arrived from Dublin, and doesn't speak a word of English. Her Chaperone will have your supper, and can translate for you if needs be." Confused, Harry folded the letter and returned to the door of his chambers. Outside, a tray of wheaten bread with fresh honey and butter on it had been left on the floor. Beside it was a silver jug of wine.

He brought the tray and wine inside and set them down on the chest of drawers, but found that his appetite had quite deserted him. He had only arrived at Linlithgow an hour or two back, and already the place struck him as odd. He couldn't put his finger on it, but everything felt wrong. It was more than the isolation of language barriers, and the empty ghost town galleries that filled the place. He had been travelling for almost a year, but it was Scotland that made him feel as though he'd been cast adrift in an alien land. Disturbed and alone, he drew the room's only chair over to the small desk in the corner and began a letter to his sister and mother, something to make him feel in touch with the home he left months ago as a boy.

* * *

The English Court reached the outskirts of London, and took up brief residence Baynards Castle. It was cramped for so many, for even more had joined them on the journey down from Yorkshire if only to catch a glimpse of the infant King Henry. They were loaded down with gifts of gold plate, silver, rich imported fabrics to make a new wardrobe befitting even a baby King. As well as that, extra gifts of toys that the baby might take an immediate interest in had been delivered from all over Europe. One was a hobby horse made of oak and fine materials. Even the mane was gold, and the small bridle buckled with silver. The eyes were precious gems. Catherine looked at it in awe, and then saw who it was from.

'King Louis?' she asked, eyebrow cocked quizzically at Wolsey.

Wolsey looked back at her and shrugged. 'Feeling generous, by the looks of it,' he remarked.

'Burn it!'

Catherine turned sharply on the spot to see Princess Mary come striding into the solar of the Castle where the gifts were being temporarily stored. She stopped abruptly and regarded the toy with a look of utmost loathing on her face.

'I've murdered your father,' she cried out shrilly, still fixing the toy in her gaze, 'but here, have this toy to compensate!'

Wolsey backed away out of what Catherine could only assume was fear. Understandable, she thought as she turned to look at her sister in law. 'Come on, Mary,' she soothed, 'the French will get what's coming to them when my son grows to be a man. The little King will make them pay, one day.'

Mary shuddered, turned away with a tear of anger clouding her sapphire eyes. 'Louis will be cold in his grave by then,' she spat. 'He should be made to pay himself for what he has done!'

In her own mind, Catherine agreed. But she knew that they would have to play a much cleverer game than that while Henry was still in the cradle. 'Mary,' she said the girls name quietly, and linked her arm through hers. 'There are a number of ways to get back at them, and they don't all involve taking up arms. But please, no more talk of vengeance now.'

Catherine could feel Mary's body stiffen against her own. But after a few minutes of them quietly pacing the solar, looking at the presents, she began to relax again. It was the grief talking. The grief of a teenage girl who had lost both of her parents, and her brothers and who's only sister was struggling to retain control of another country far away. She was alone; just like Catherine.

Eventually, Mary sat down by the empty hearth at Catherine's side. 'I trust you, Sister,' she said, looking into the ashen grey grate. 'Whatever you do as Queen Regent, you will hear no protest from me.'

Once they had settled in and eaten, Catherine called the company together in the Great Hall. Now that they were so close to London the business of ruling could not be delayed, and she was keen to stamp her authority on any Government that was formed in her son's name. So she took up her normal place on the dais, only the King's place was occupied by Lady Salisbury with King Henry perched on her knee. He was alert, though. He had his father's piercing blue eyes, and now he – like his mother – looked out over the assembled crowd of men, sweetly oblivious to his future being shaped.

As soon as they were silent, and all eyes were on her, Catherine cleared her throat and addressed them firmly.

'My Lords and Gentlemen of the Realm,' she spoke up, projecting her voice to the very back of the hall. 'My son, your King, will be in need to a Regency Counsel until he comes of age at seventeen. For this purpose, I have selected twelve of you to fulfil that purpose. You are all equal, and no one man has any authority over the other – just as my late husband decreed it. However, also in keeping with Henry's wishes, I shall remain as Queen Regent over you all.' Catherine paused, expecting a murmur of discontent. When, after a long moment, none came, she continued with ever growing confidence. 'Sir Thomas More, Thomas Wolsey, Thomas Howard Duke of Norfolk, Edward Stafford Duke of Buckingham, Bishop John Fisher, Archbishop Warham, Sir John Elleker, His Grace the Earl of Shrewsbury, Henry Percy Earl of Northumberland, Sir John Seymour, Charles Brandon, and Sir Richard Pole will all work together in unity to form that Regency Counsel. It will be up to them to appoint ministers, and up to me to approve all of their decisions. I hope that is understood, and I hope it is also understood that infighting will not be tolerated.'

The men all looked back at her, alert and watchful, none of them daring to speak. Satisfied, she stepped down from the dais with her ladies trailing after her. The men parted, forming a path for her to leave, but as she went she gestured to Wolsey to follow. Once he had caught up with her she picked up the pace, leading to a small ante-chamber well away from the Great Hall where they could talk in privacy. Before they went in, she turned and instructed her ladies to assist with Lady Salisbury in putting Henry to bed. But once they were alone, Catherine ushered Wolsey into the narrow chamber, and closed the door behind her.

'We both know what those gifts for Henry meant,' she said, cutting to the chase. 'Louis wants to make peace with us.'

True to form Wolsey didn't reply immediately. His grey eyes scanned the room at a leisurely pace, as though he were pricing up the sparse furniture. Only once he'd done the arithmetic did he look back at Catherine. 'It could be that,' he simply said. 'But, are you ready to make peace with your husband's killers?'

Catherine laughed drily. 'What choice do I have?' she asked, head inclined; a gesture of resignation. 'I would be an idiot to take them on, now. But think, Wolsey, if we made peace with the French where would that leave their alliance with Scotland?'

Wolsey smiled a beatific smile. 'No more wars with the French to worry about, and the enemy on our doorstep even more isolated than they already are. But the French will want something in return.'

Catherine felt her spirits sag again. 'I know that,' she said, turning to look out of the window. 'I will not marry my son to them. But I have one Princess to offer.'

'She won't like it.'

'She'll hate it. She'll hate me.'

'Louis will love her,' Wolsey was trying to accentuate the positives. Catherine had to admire that. 'Think of what we could gain from it. Mary would be Queen of France. A union that would keep your son safe against the French, and the Scots.'

'We talked about pay back for the French,' said Catherine turning to look at Wolsey again. 'I don't think this is what she had in mind.'

* * *

Margaret strode through the gallery in a rush, her ladies trailing after her in her wake. She wanted to be early for the meeting, and as she spotted Archibald Douglas coming towards her, she briefly considered altering her route to avoid him. But it was too late. She caught his eye for a fatal second, and they both knew that they were there.

'I'm in a rush, Archie,' she said, 'I can't stop now.'

He reached out one arm to stop her. 'I'm not asking you to stop,' he said, falling into step at her side. 'I want to come with you.'

She came to halt and looked at him askance. 'You can't do that, he's my Cousin and this is a private audience!' she gasped.

His gaze flickered around the gallery which was deserted except for Margaret and her ladies. Nonetheless, he took her by the elbow and steered her forcefully down an ante-chamber that led out onto the Presence Chamber, where any moment Harry Courtenay would be arriving.

'How much does he know?' Archie asked, whispering low in her ear as if scared that the walls would over hear them.

Margaret sighed impatiently. 'Nothing. He was brought in by one of the locals, and only Lady Aislin has been to him, and you know she couldn't have told him anything. She hasn't a word of English," she broke off to glance back at her women, where Aislin stood just outside the small throng of Ladies; alone in a crowd. She looked back at Margaret, but showed no comprehension.

Archibald still didn't look happy. 'If the others get to him they'll fill his head with all sorts of nonsense,' he stormed. 'We can't have him reporting anything like that back to the English.'

Margaret wrenched her wrist free of his grip in a fit of indignation. 'Do you really think me stupid enough to let him?' she hissed back. 'What's really incriminating is you hanging around me like a bad smell. Get out of here and don't return until Exeter is gone. Do you hear me?'

For a long moment the two of them simply looked at one another in a mutinous silence. Neither seemed inclined to back down, but even Archie seemed to know that he couldn't defy the Queen so openly. He pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders, and slowly walked away without looking back at her. Margaret, however, painted on the smile and motioned for her ladies to follow her the rest of the way into the Presence Chamber.

Archie had made her late. Harry Courtenay was already there, waiting quietly for her, when she arrived. She paused in the archway and cleared her throat to get his attention. He turned, and bowed elegantly. It had been years since she had last seen one of her own relations, and despite what had just happened, her heart lifted.

'Cousin,' she greeted him. 'the last time I saw you you were still in swaddling blankets!'

Harry rose to his full height, and blushed. 'Things have changed since then, Your Grace,' he replied, stopping to kiss her hand and lead her up to her place on the dais.

Once she was seated, she placed her hand on Harry's arm to get his attention. Once she had that, she nodded to the tall, slender girl with the dark hair that had been plaited into a neat bun at the back of her head. It was Aislin.

"Mother Alice tells me you two had an unfortunate introduction yesterday evening?" she said, winking at Harry.

Harry felt himself flush again, and looked down at his boots. 'You could say that.'

Margaret giggled like a girl, gesturing to Aislin to come over to them. She noticed it, but it took a gentle nudge from another Lady to prompt her to go up to the dais. Once she was there, Margaret tugged at Aislin's silk sleeve. 'There there, darling,' Margaret cooed up at the girl soothingly, trying to let her know that she wasn't being mocked. She then turned back to Harry. 'Don't worry about Aislin here,' she told him. 'Her father sent her over here to marry one of the earls killed by your Queen's army at Flodden, so now she's at a loose end. She's the soul of discretion, so fear not for your naked wanderings. She couldn't tell anyone herself, even if she wanted to.'

There was a pause in which Harry and Aislin exchanged a glance. He looked embarrassed, but for the sake of the poor girl rather than himself. But then, Aislin herself smiled and glanced down at her shoes.

'Is féidir liom labhairt Béarla, ach ní bheidh cad nach bhfuil a fhios agat tú Gortaítear*,' she said, her dark eyes flitting from Harry back to Queen Margaret again.

Margaret looked up at the girl in confusion. After an awkward silence, she simply smiled and patted the girl's hand. 'Yes dear,' she said. 'Go back now, so the Marquis and I can speak in private.' She gestured with her arm what she should do, but another Lady stepped forwards to help her anyway.

But before she left, Aislin turned to speak once more: 'Ádh mór, Do Ghrásta. Beidh tú gá é leis timpeall**,' she said, and allowed herself to be led down the steps again.

Alone again, Margaret turned her full attention to Harry. 'She's a sweet girl really,' she said, 'but we haven't come to talk about her. Wolsey sent you, didn't he?'

'He did, madam,' he answered truthfully. 'The Queen of England means to make peace with you. That is my main mission here. Not to spy, or pry into Scottish affairs-'

'Then you have come with my jewels, then?' she asked, sounding hopeful.

'Not exactly,' he replied.

Margaret sighed, but inwardly she was less than surprised. 'Then as soon as Catherine returns what is mine, we can fully make peace,' she said, looking Harry up and down as though weighing him up. 'She has a son now, does she not?'

'She does.'

'A King from the moment he drew his first breath,' said Margaret, almost regretful. 'She needs to be the one to secure her boy's future because he can't do it himself-'

'I think my Queen is aware of that.'

Margaret paused for a moment, selecting her next words carefully. 'If she wants to keep the French at bay, then she will need my friendship whether she wants it or not. Do you understand what I'm saying?'

Harry looked at her, and ran a nervous hand through his hair. He took a deep breath, and replied with words as measured as Margaret's own. 'God forbid my Queen would feel bullied into accepting any Scottish friendship, however.'

Margaret could see that she had him on the run. Catherine's hands were tied so long as the French continued to support Scotland, and the auld alliance was as old as the hills themselves. She smiled, and leaned back in her chair. 'Write to Catherine, and inform her that I want the remainder of my dowry, and my jewels and then we can talk peace together.'

* * *

The day of the funeral dawned bright, but cold. The first blasts of frost had smothered the streets, but the effect made the pavings glitter like diamanté in the weak winter sun. An effect quite at odds with the mood of the mourners who followed the black draped casket through the streets of London. Catherine could see them approach from the door way of St George's chapel in Windsor. Finally, she could lay her husband to rest, and begin building a future. Behind her, Edward Stafford looked out for her.

'Your Grace,' he said quietly, whispering through her veil. 'Would you like to come inside now? No one should see you here.'

She would be watching the funeral from the privacy of her own box in the stands, despite it being against Royal protocol. But for Henry, she needed to see him safely in the vault, where one day she knew she would join him for eternity. She looked at Edward Stafford, and smiled through the tears that already shone on her cheeks.

* * *

Foot Note:

English translation of Aislin's words to Queen Margaret:

* I can speak English, but what you do not know will not hurt you.

** Good luck, Your grace. You will be needing it with him around.


	7. Winter Rose

**Author's Note: **Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your input means a lot to me and it's very much appreciated. Thank you. The usual disclaimers apply here, and I own none of the characters besides Aislin and King Henry IX. I hope everyone continues to enjoy the story, and please read and review, thank you.

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Winter Roses.**

A broad morning light streamed in through the open bay windows of the Royal Apartments. It bounced off the Kings rattle and shone a brilliant white-gold as he learned how to make the dried beans inside make the noise that made him beam from ear to ear. Every day he learned something new and delightful, regardless of the what diplomatic storms were breaking over him. Catherine could only envy him as she leaned over the great cradle, and looked inside. Always she noted some new way in which he resembled his father. That morning, in the brilliant winter sun, she noted the autumnal auburn streaks in his baby-curls. Just like his father, Catherine thought, and her heart ached for him all over again.

Not that the King wasn't a consolation to her. When she felt the tears coming on, she would lift the infant out of his cradle, and lay him across her breast. She would breathe in his rich baby scent, and an all-consuming love would flood her; a love that was devastating in its force. No amount of grief could withstand a feeling like that. She carried him over to the side of the chamber, where the sunlight didn't dazzle so badly; to where a six foot long steel bladed sword stood propped against the wall. It's blade glimmered dully as Catherine knelt down – making her stiff linen widows weeds pool at her ankles with a crackle.

'You see this,' she whispered in King Henry's ear and reached out with her free hand to caress the blade. The baby made a clucking noise deep in his throat; something Catherine took for agreement as his sharp blue eyes fell on the blade. 'You know who's was this?' She turned to look at him, his head now lay on her shoulder with his face towards the sword. 'This was your Papa's,' she explained softly, a small smile at a bitter-sweet memory played across her lips. The last time she saw him he was sheathing that very blade, having just invoked St George. 'Now it is yours, little King, and one day we will have our revenge.'

'You raise my nephew well, sister.'

Taken by surprise, Catherine had to double her clutch on Henry; she thought she was alone. She jumped back to her feet unsteadily, and turned to find Princess Mary standing in the doorway of one of the connecting galleries that led into the Royal Chambers. She curtsied briefly. 'I apologise for alarming you,' she said, noting Catherine's reaction.

'Unnecessary, Your Grace,' Catherine replied, regaining control of her heartbeat as she recovered from the shock. She hitched the King up, securing him as he dozed off against her shoulder. 'I was just showing him his father's old sword,' she explained, walking closer to the Princess Royal. 'Sentimental, I suppose.'

Mary smiled kindly. 'It is not,' she gently chided and held out her arms. 'May I?'

Catherine gently handed the King over to his aunt. Awoken by the sudden jostling, he grizzled and grimaced before sinking back into his sleep the moment he was secure on Mary's hip. She cooed down at him, bouncing him softly on his way into slumber and whispering in his ear to see him on his way. Catherine stood back and watched them for a moment. It was scene being played out in nurseries up and down the country, but still felt unique to her at that moment.

'Mary, what you said at Baynards Castle, did you mean it?' asked Catherine as the two women began pacing slowly back towards the King's great cradle.

Mary looked puzzled for a second, struggling to recall the moment. 'You mean my oath of loyalty?' she asked for clarification. 'I meant it all and more; you don't need to ask. Your will be done.'

The negotiations with the French Ambassador drifted through Catherine's mind like a haze. It was almost as if she was deliberately blocking out an action that was naturally anathema to her. 'Thank you,' she replied to Mary, 'it means a lot to us, and you should never forget that.'

Mary frowned at Catherine from over the bulk of her nephew who's head now nestled snugly under her chin. 'Wolsey is here,' she said, remembering the reason she had entered the royal inner sanctum in the first place. 'Shall I take Henry, and show Wolsey inside for you?'

Her gut twisted; a sense of betrayal. 'Please,' she replied trying to sound casual. But as she watched Mary vanish down the gallery with her nephew in her arms, Catherine knew her feeling was real. She hoped, no matter how badly she needed peace with England's traditional enemies, that the Chaplain had arrived with nothing more than housekeeping bills.

But, as Wolsey appeared with a flourish of a bow in her private apartments, she caught sight of the large sealed documents, and knew it was serious business. She held out her hand for him to kiss, and a servant pulled out chairs at the small dining table so they could at least be comfortable.

'A letter from Scotland,' Wolsey said as he pushed a tattered envelope across the table to Catherine. 'From Harry Courtenay, and the news is strange.'

Their gaze met briefly as curiosity flickered in her. 'Strange?' she repeated in bafflement. As she read the letter, she paused occasionally to comment. 'A servant close to the Queen who speaks no English? The King nowhere to be seen? The Court almost empty but for nobles scrabbling for vacant titles and lands. The exchequer to impoverished to even consider renewed hostilities with the English.'

The last sentence alone was enough to bring Catherine relief. 'If they're so poor, then do we still need to make peace with the French through this marriage?'

Wolsey's expression darkened. 'Of course,' he replied, 'better they're allied to us than to the Scots, no matter what their financial situation is. Thomas More and a few others have already been sent to Paris to open negotiations for us. Mary's hand for King Louis. He has seen her portrait already, and is quite taken with her grace.'

Of course he is. Mary is beautiful; Louis was a notorious lecher in his youth. How could the old French King ever resist? Catherine let her gaze drop to the floor at Wolsey's side as the last ray of hope on the French front was cut off. All she could imagine was Mary's reaction.

'I know it's distasteful,' said Wolsey as if he'd scanned the thoughts in the Queens head. 'For what it's worth I think the Princess will understand what and why we're doing this. This could be the perpetual peace that both England and France have striven for for years, now, and that's what we need to stress to her: peace, harmony and a new, prosperous future built on mutual concord. Plus it will irritate the Scots no end; that's an added bonus.'

Catherine laughed, but then gave a weak shrug of her shoulders as she studied the Chaplain closely. 'Do you really believe in all this perpetual peace business?' she asked. 'My parents would have thrown you off the battlements if you'd said such things in their presence. I'm still undecided about what I am going to do with you.'

Wolsey smiled a cat-like smile. 'Not throw me off the battlements, I hope,' he replied light-heartedly. 'But yes, I do believe in it. We can't spend our whole lives at war with our neighbours. It is wasteful, expensive, it is abhorrent to God and it costs lives; lives that can never be replaced or compensated.'

'I admire your sentiments, Thomas,' she replied, still curious about the pacifist in front of her. 'But I think you dream too much. War is impossible to avoid, and it makes nations stronger-'

'As the Scots have just found out!' Wolsey laughed heartily.

Catherine bore him patiently. Once he fell silent again, she fixed him with a soft look and an almost playful smile on her lips. 'But they lost,' she pointed out. 'I do not lose, and nor will my son.'

Catherine was a Humanist. God knew that she was a Humanist, and followed the new learning passionately. Her son would be raised by Humanist scholars, and surrounded by the most respected intellects she could drag across the sea and beyond. But he would be a warrior, too. 'I admire you, I really do,' she said sympathetically, noting the clouded disappointment in his eyes. 'But still, I want Norfolk, Buckingham and Charles Brandon in to teach King Henry his Knightly duties the moment he turns seven years of age.'

'Naturally, it will be done,' Wolsey replied. 'Is there any other business I can assist you with, Your Grace?'

He sounded as though he were in a hurry to end the meeting, now. As if his peaceful ways were somehow offensive.

Catherine paused for a second. 'I don't suppose there is any point in keeping Harry Courtenay out in Scotland if there's nothing to report, is there?'

'Perhaps send him to hunt down the Court?' he suggested. 'There's something going on there; I can sense it all the way down here.'

It was costing them money, but Catherine was soon over-come with curiosity. 'I want to know what Margaret is up to as well, now that you mention it,' she replied. 'But yes, write to him and instruct him to track down the Regency Counsel and find out what's going on and why Margaret is all alone there. It could be they're about to dislodge her.' Catherine could only hope.

Wolsey was smiling again. 'As Your Grace commands,' he replied with a bow. 'I'll send the Dukes and Charles Brandon to you, as well. If they're to instruct the King in warfare they'll need to be prepared.'

Their meeting closed in a flurry of mandatory niceties and a Lady was summoned to escort the Cardinal from the Apartments. Catherine's day was free to be spent in the company of her son. Hours of uninterrupted time together. But despite the temptations he offered, her mind was drifting to Scotland; across the sea to France, and to her widening options. She wanted to watch as her pieces fell into place on the board.

* * *

Harry Courtenay looked down at the scrap of parchment in his hands, and stuffed it back inside the pocket of his jerkin. It wasn't as if the words had rearranged themselves, and he was still non the wiser as to who the note had come from. Nervously, he waited in the cellars beneath the kitchens – the place stipulated clearly in the note. His hearing seemed to over-compensate for his sight in the poorly lit Cellar, and every small sound was amplified and made it seem as if it came from all around him. To distract himself he moved from between the two wine racks he had secreted himself in, and out into a passage way that held a view of the door through which he had come. Just on the other side of it was a stone stairwell.

He didn't know who to expect to come through that door. He found himself thinking it could be Aislin, the Irish girl – but she didn't speak English except through her mistress. He spotted her often loitering near his chambers. She would flush red to the roots of her hair when she saw him; possibly remembering their first meeting when he had been half naked. But, he dismissed the idea of it being her. A dismissal that was soon vindicated when the door groaned on its hinges as it opened to reveal a breathless Bishop; a Bishop Harry felt certain he had never met before in his life.

For a long moment the two of them regarded each other carefully; both squinting through the poor light of the torches set in brackets along the walls. The Bishop stepped closer to Harry, but seemed to be looking past him, as though expecting to find somebody else in there with them – hiding behind the ale barrels, perhaps. Harry took a step towards the centre of the room, and stood with his hand propped casually on his hip.

'Can I help, Your Grace?' he asked, trying to sound casual.

The Bishop continued to look around him for a moment, but then turned to finally look at him. 'Boy,' he said, causing irritation to prickle in Harry's chest; he was almost seventeen! 'I'm looking for the Marquis of Exeter. Are you his Squire? A Page perhaps?'

Harry rolled his eyes and heaved a deep sigh, he didn't care if he was being grossly insulting to the man. 'I am the Marquis of Exeter,' he pointed out rather sharply. 'You asked to meet me here, yes?'

'Wolsey sent you?' asked the Bishop in disbelief. He didn't wait for Harry to reply. 'Well, never mind that now. I need to talk to you.'

The Bishop advanced on Harry before he could raise an objection, or even get a word in edgeways. He found himself being marched by the wrist to the far end of the cellars, out of the reach of the torchlight, even. In the dark shadows they could see the length of the room. They could see anyone entering long before any unexpected arrivals saw them. Harry's nerves began to prickle anew, only now it was through apprehension. What could the Bishop have to say that could be so sensitive that all this was necessary? But first, he wanted some answers of his own.

'Who are you?' he asked, hearing the Bishop's wheezy breathing a lot better than he could see him.

'Oh, you don't know me,' he replied, 'but I'm Bishop William Gilmore, and I think I have news that might interest you.'

Might. Harry didn't like the word choice, but he remained silent; a signal for the Bishop to start properly talking.

'You've been reporting that the Dowager Queen is in control of the Counsel,' he began in a low whisper. 'But she stands on the brink of ruin, and I know not what will come of this business.'

'What business?' Harry asked before the Bishop could digress into speculation about the future.

'The Earl, of course,' the Bishop replied shortly. 'Haven't you picked up anything?'

'There's scarcely anything here to pick up!' Harry protested, but felt suddenly guilty for his complacency all the same. 'I tried-'

'Not hard enough,' Gilmore interjected. 'She's about to marry the Earl of Angus, and the Counsel know full well he only wishes to marry the Queen so he can control the King, his future step-son-'

At that point, Harry cut him off. 'But he won't be able to do anything without the consent of the whole Counsel, so it won't matter; at least not until the King comes of age. By that time James will be his own man – unless he's completely spineless.'

'You're missing the point!' the Bishop wheezed harder than ever. 'The Queen Dowager is the only person keeping the Counsel in check over the English. Without her steadying them anything could happen. With Angus having such a hold over her, he could even influence her himself. Don't you see?'

Harry thought about what the Bishop was saying; could understand well the anger the match could cause. It was inappropriate, and so soon after the death of James V it was almost indecent. But, he could hazard a guess at the Bishop's real concern.

'Forgive my presumption, Your Grace,' he said magnanimously. 'But I think you're more concerned about what the French will think of this match, and the peril is now you stand to lose their allegiance – but that can only benefit my Master, as well as the whole of England.'

He'd heard enough and had already walked two steps away from the dark alcove they were huddled in and back into the light. But the Bishop reached out with a surprising speed and grabbed his arm, pulling him back with an even more alarming strength. The exertion cost the Bishop, however, his wheezing now had its own echo. It was enough to make Harry genuinely concerned for the man's health.

'The Queen and the Earl plan to wed in secret!' the Bishop gasped, still clutching at Harry's arm. 'We all need the Queen Dowager to remain at the head of the Counsel, and we all need Angus gone from here. All of Europe will benefit from that.' There was a pause during which Harry didn't make to speak at all; he was too busy trying to stop his head from reeling along with the other man's fears of the Earl. 'He is using her to get at England, he has plans...' The rest of the Bishop's sentence was cut off by a coughing fit that seemed to come from as deep as the Bishop's boots.

'How do you know that they plan to wed?' he asked, once Gilmore had recovered himself sufficiently.

'They want me to do it,' he replied, sounding much improved. 'The Earl approached me himself. It is be done a week hence. I can't do it, and I can't not do it. You're my last resort.'

The Bishop's admission left Harry baffled and – for reasons he couldn't fathom – a little embarrassed. He reclaimed his arm from the grip of the Bishop and take a measured backwards step. 'I don't know what I can do beside report all this back to Wolsey,' he said, holding up his hands in a gesture of defeat. 'And something tells me you don't want me doing that-'

'On the contrary,' the Bishop interjected, stepping forwards to keep up with his retreating quarry. 'The English must be prepared for what is about to happen. We're heading towards our ruin, and Angus is the one taking us there!'

Once back in the dim light of the cellar torches Harry could see the look of panic in Bishop Gilmore's eyes. He could see that the other man was ageing, and he had the pinched look of an elderly gentleman who wasn't so much as dying, but gradually fading away one gradient at a time. 'I'll do what I can,' Harry assured him, gentle in his demeanour now that he had properly seen the man he'd been talking to. 'But I fear it will not be enough.'

* * *

'Where's he off to?'

Margaret tried to pay no attention to Archie as she reclined leisurely on the chaise longue and closed her eyes. Aislin, her Lady in Waiting, rubbed gently at her shoulders. Despite her best efforts, she knew his query would need further probing if ever he was to come away from the window and sit back down with her.

'Who're you talking about, my love?' she asked, 'you know very well I can't see.'

'That cousin of yours,' he replied brusquely. 'The one who's sniffing around for Queen Catherine. He's with Bishop Gilmore; out in the yards!'

He sounded scandalised. Margaret groaned and opened one eye; hauling herself away from the doze she was looking forward to sinking in to. 'Harry is my Cousin, he's here to see me and nothing more.'

Archie turned sharply from the window and fixed her with a shrewd look. 'You know very well he's here to turn up scandal. You're protecting him because he's your cousin, that's all.'

Margaret had sensed the danger of the approaching tantrum from Archie from the second that Harry first showed up at Linlithgow. He'd been mentioning it endlessly, trying to pick a fight so he could have to Marquis turned out of the palace and kicked back to London. She took a deep breath to calm herself, and turned to Aislin.

'That's enough,' she said quietly to the Lady, stilling her hands and smiling.

Aislin seemed to get the message, and got up from where she was kneeling at the Queen's head to occupy herself with something else. Satisfied, Margaret got up; sliding her feet into her silk slippers she crossed the room to where the Earl was still standing and staring out of the window at two figures weaving unsteadily across the forecourt. The elder of the two was leaning against the younger, and it was clearly Harry Courtenay. It didn't sit right with Margaret, but for the sake of peace within her Royal Apartments, she made an attempt to brush it off.

'Darling,' she said with a light laugh. 'Harry's probably just bumped into the Bishop and now he's helping him back to his chambers. You know poor Bishop Gilmore is nearing his end. His chest grows worse by the hour. I can't believe you picked him to conduct our wedding.'

But Archie's body stiffened under her touch as she went to embrace him. He pushed her away, a frown marring his fair complexion. 'You're siding with your Cousin over me!' he cried, causing Aislin to drop a vase that she was carrying. The sound of splintering glass caused both Margaret and Archie to gasp in shock. 'You idiot girl!' the Earl bellowed at the hapless Lady as he then rounded on her. Aislin froze, like a doe in the line of the huntsman's sight, with a sudden fear.

Margaret, however, was quick to step in. 'You cannot talk to my household staff like that,' she snapped. 'You will do well to remember that you are not my Lord and Husband yet, and I can cut you down as swift as you presumed to raise yourself. Bear in mind the enemies you have made before you push me too far-'

The Earl flushed red with rage. 'I made them all for you!' he angrily retorted, tears springing into his eyes. 'I sacrificed my honour for you and you reward me with trouble and grief. Now you threaten me with the wrath of my foes!'

Margaret's anger evaporated like mists from a tomb. She crossed the small space that divided them and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek. 'You know I would never send you from me,' she said, clasping him closer. 'Ignore me, I spoke only in anger and you know what I get like.'

He didn't seem to be paying any attention as he turned his face away from her, arms still resolutely at his sides as she clung to him; his eyes firmly on the shattered vase. 'The fact is, Margaret, that I am surrounded by my enemies, and now your family seek to interfere, too,' he protested meekly. 'God knows what Gilmore has been and told him and you know what will happen if word of this gets out. What about our other plans?'

'I will talk to him,' said Margaret, finally relaxing her grip. 'I won't let anything come between us, or our plans. You know that.'

'Do I?'

'Not yet, but I'll prove it; just you watch.'

Margaret didn't know what else she could say. She looked deep into his grey-blue eyes, trying to see if his temper had abated even an inch. Finally, he looked back at her, and circled his arms about her waist. 'I can't wait forever,' he sighed, kissing her neck. Relieved, she kissed him back, melting once more into his embrace.

* * *

The Duke of Buckingham; arriving at the Royal Apartments just as Catherine was leaving, and their retinues almost colliding. The Duke bowed low, a deference to his Queen, and possibly hoping it would cover up for the fact that he almost walked right into her. He blamed it on the crowded outer-galleries. Catherine remained gracious, despite the grizzling infant in the arms of her chief Lady in Waiting.

'You've come from the Counsel,' she remarked, gesturing for him to rise. 'I know that look.'

He smiled I recognition of her jocular cynicism. 'I can return later if it pleases Your Grace?'

'Not at all,' she replied. 'My ladies would appreciate the company on our walk around the rose gardens.'

Buckingham nodded his approval, and fell into step at Catherine's side as they proceeded through the galleries and out into the gardens at the rear of the apartments. It was winter still, so nothing was in bloom. The bare stalks of once thriving trailing bushes stood naked and abashed in the frozen earth. The frosts choked the topsoil, but the air was crisp and clean in the distant sun. It was Catherine's favourite time of year. Yes, there were privations brought on by the harsh winter. The people suffered from a lack of food. The nights were long, and the weather often bleak. But at winter's height, like it was at that moment, the land glittered with diamanté frost, and the icicles hung like daggers from the pipes and roofs. Blankets of virgin white snow lay thick on the rolling fields, stretching away as far as the eye could see. That was how she found England when she first arrived, all those years ago. A foreign land that contrasted so sharply with that which she had left behind. So strange; so beautiful.

'You must miss your homeland at this time of year, Your Grace?' the Duke asked, surveying the dead gardens half buried in the frosts.

Catherine laughed. 'Quite the contrary,' she replied, but she could never explain the reason why, and less still set into context.

'Tell me,' she added, looking up at the Duke who was at her side, 'what news from the counsel?'

'King Louis has agreed to the match,' he answered steadily. Only a few months ago he was at war with the French, now he was giving England's greatest asset to them. 'We just need your final approval.'

Catherine nodded slowly. It had to be done; she had no choice. Take the French away from the Scots, and isolate her nearest enemy. She didn't want to dwell on it. 'It will be done,' was all she eventually said.

They came to a halt in the middle of the lawn where they stood facing one another beside a frozen fountain. The women and the Duke's retainers lagged behind at a respectful distance. Catherine looked around at them all, wondering why they came no closer. The Duke was looking at something over her left shoulder.

'Excuse me for one moment, Your Grace,' he said before moving around her.

She turned to see what he was doing, but he was hunched over something on the ground near the farthest wall. She assumed one of the dogs had gotten stuck in the frozen tangled brambles that grew there. While the Duke fussed, she looked at the ice on the surface of the fountain. Its surface was scratched and opaque, like an old mirror; reflecting the sky in a dull grey light.

Minutes later, and Buckingham was back.

'For you,' he said. 'A winter rose for a winter Queen.'

Catherine glanced downwards. In his hand he held out a single, perfectly formed white rose. Its petals tinged with the faintest trace of pink, and dusted with frost. It was probably the last thing alive in that garden.

'It's beautiful,' she said, smiling and taking the flower in her own hand for closer inspection.

'If you know where to look, there's always signs of life somewhere,' he told her.

She had to agree.


	8. Knocking on Hell's Door

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this fic – it's much appreciated! As always, I own none of this; certainly not the history behind it, even though it's AU. Please read and review, thank you.

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**Chapter Eight: Knocking On Hell's Door.**

The knock on the door cut across the idle chatter of the women, and even the King dropped his rattle. Silence fell as though the sudden noise had struck them all dumb. The Queen Dowager, Catherine, looked at the man at her side, the Duke of Buckingham. His expression was soft, almost sympathetic. "Good luck," he said as he took the infant King from her arms and retreated with the women into an ante-chamber.

As they left, the chamberlain appeared. "Her Royal Highness, the Princess Mary," he intoned with a formal bow.

The moment had come. Catherine knew she could have delegated this task; Wolsey or even Thomas More, could have done it for her. But it was her signature on the treaty of peace with the French, and it would be her grim task of informing the Princess of her marital fate. She cleared her throat; found it dry, and nodded to the chamberlain to admit the Princess.

Mary entered, still draped in black in honour of her brother's memory despite it being more than a full year since the death of the old King. She bid her ladies wait for her outside the Royal Apartments, and entered Catherine's Presence Chamber with a deep curtsey. For what it was worth, Catherine behaved as though it were just another royal summons. She extended her hand for Mary to kiss, and stilled the tremble that threatened to betray her nerves.

"Sister," she said, forcing an air of cheeriness into her tone, "welcome."

Mary, blissfully oblivious to what was coming, rose to full height with a smile playing across her rosebud lips. "Your Grace, I came to you as soon as the summons arrived at Eltham Palace," she explained. "But the tide was against us, and I hope you forgive my tardiness."

The wait had been painful; drawing out the moment when the bad news would have to be delivered. "I understand," replied Catherine. "Please, come and sit with me."

Catherine walked back up to the dais with Mary just one respectful step behind her. Lady Elizabeth Howard, fresh from her marriage to the Duke of Norfolk, appeared to pour the Queen and the Princess some wine. Once she was done, Catherine got straight to the point. No one liked to be beaten around the bushes.

"The time has come for your marriage," she remarked, and a choking noise came from deep in Mary's throat.

"My marriage?" Mary repeated, her blue eyes – so reminiscent of her brother's – wide. The colour drained slowly from her face.

Catherine couldn't look at her. It felt like a betrayal to Mary, and to her brother. "England and France are now at peace," Catherine explained, her voice low and her justifications suddenly hollow to her own ears. "Your marriage to the King of France will cement that alliance-"

"Louis?" Mary interjected.

When Catherine looked at her again, she saw that Mary had gone rigid with shock, her hand poised with the glass half-way to her lips. Once again, Catherine steeled herself. "Yes, Louis," she confirmed. Mary looked as nauseated as Catherine suddenly felt, but the news had shocked the words right out of her.

When Mary remained silent for longer than Catherine could bear, she launched into a diatribe of explanations. "Remember you promised me you would do anything for England?" she blurted out. "I need you to do this; Henry needs you to do this-"

"Henry!" Mary snapped, finally showing the force of her anger. "Henry will be rolling in his grave at this betrayal!"

"Henry is dead," Catherine retorted, "I was talking about your nephew, who thrives in this life, and who relies on you and I to protect his Realm. He needs you to do this." Now that the decision was known to Mary, Catherine felt as if a weight had been lifted from her chest and now she was ready to defend her decision to the last. "This is your duty."

"My duty is to England, and the promotion of my dynasty," Mary stormed, letting the glass in her hands fall to the floor with a shattering crash that sent shards of glass scattering over her silk slippers. "Pandering to my enemies is not part of my duty, Madam."

She was on her feet, now, standing over Catherine and glaring down at her. If it was anyone else, the Queen would have had them arrested. Part of her even hoped that Mary would rage like this. Vent the anger early, and make her more compliant when the moment of departure came – give her time to become accustomed to the idea. "If you could see reason, Your Grace," Catherine implored. She reached out for the Princesses hand, but Mary snatched away.

"What sense is there in this?" she demanded to know. "Louis is an old man; knocking on hell's door from what I hear-"

"So this is vanity?" Catherine retorted, cutting her sister in law off mid flow. "This isn't an affront to your duty, you just can't stomach being married off to an old man!"

"That's not true!"

The anger grew in Mary, rather than subsided as Catherine thought it would. She got to her feet so that they were level with one another. "This matter is final," she said with a renewed calmness. "Whatever reservations you have, you must set them aside now. For all England's sake."

"England's sake?" Mary asked with a mirthless laugh. "What would you know of England? You do not know our ways, and you do not understand that no true Englishman would set aside his enmity for France. How could you – a foreigner – possible understand-"

"Enough!" Catherine's temper snapped. "England is my home, too, and her interests are as dear to me as Spain's ever were in the past."

For a moment, Mary looked set to protest even further. But the expression on Catherine's face stilled her tongue. Her eyes swam with tears of anger as she held Catherine's gaze, but the Queen was not for turning now. The treaty was done, the pact signed.

* * *

Warmth from the brazier barely reached the tips of Harry Courtenay's fingers as he huddled around the lapping flames. He rubbed his hands together, trying to chafe the numbness away. The Scottish winter was more harsh than anything he'd experienced in the south of England, and he wondered if it ever thawed this far north. Linlithgow was sheeted in ice, and the countryside smothered in a thick layer of snow. The roads, such as they were, were blocked, and his masters in London well out of reach. He was cut off, isolated in a hostile country that was riven with factionalism and social unrest. At the heart of it all seemed to be Archibald Douglas, the earl of Angus, and soon to be the husband of his cousin, Margaret Queen of Scots.

Harry hadn't spoken to his source, Bishop Gilmore, since their last meeting in the cellars. The old man's health was poor, and if that was all that stood between Scotland and ruin, then the future was bleak. Harry pondered it all as he tried to warm himself by the Courtyard's brazier flames, and watched as the sun set low over the frozen loch.

After a few more stolen moments, he reluctantly pulled himself away from the warmth and carefully picked his way along the icy flagstones. Nevertheless, more than once he found himself flinging his arms out to catch a fall as he slipped and slid towards the entrance of Linlithgow Palace. Carefully, he rounded a corner only to collide with another person coming from the opposite direction. They both reached out and grabbed each other instinctively but all they succeeded in doing was to skid along the ice and collapse, Harry on top of the other person.

"I'm so sorry," he gasped as looked down, and found himself looking into Aislin's deep, dark eyes. She looked terrified, eyes ablaze and her face flushed red. "We really must stop meeting like this." Harry tried to laugh the matter off as he struggled back to his feet. Once up, he offered his hand to Aislin as she remained lying on the ground with her skirts splayed out exposing her stockinged legs. He blushed as he remembered that the girl spoke only Irish.

"Never mind," he whispered, trying to pull her to her feet. Once she was up, she managed a smile. Assured of her safety, he carried on his way. There was little point in offering her further assistance since she wouldn't understand a word of it, anyway. But as he cast a backwards glance over his shoulder, just to make sure she was still in one piece, he saw she was still standing there, watching him in the brightening moonlight, the smile frozen on her lips. He smiled back, but when he turned around again, he saw the earl of Angus striding towards them. She was smiling at him, but when Harry looked back again, Aislin was gone.

"What are you doing here?" Angus enquired as they drew level in the doorway to the Palace. "Out of my way."

Harry almost slipped on the icy steps as he dodged the advancing earl, and had to grip the handrail for dear life.

"Where are you going?" the question was out before Harry even knew he was going to speak. For a moment, he didn't think the earl had heard him. But he stopped, paused, and turned slowly to face him.

"What did you just say?"

Harry could have kicked himself, but it was too late to back down now. "I said, where are you going?" Aislin was smiling at him, he knew it. He was following her, and he wanted to know why, and he felt sure that Margaret would like to know, too. But the earl's expression was one of cold fury as he took one small step closer to him.

"Curiosity killed the cat," he said, his tone even; his voice barely a whisper. "Now, run along."

Harry stood his ground. Drawing himself to his full height, he met the earl's gaze without fear or guile. "My cousin, the Queen," he began again, emphasising her rank, "will soon see through you, my lord of Angus. Maybe you should think twice before threatening me?"

Despite the cold, the earl's face burned red with anger, but still Harry stood his ground. It would be in England's perverse best interests to simply allow this marriage to take place. It would break the Scottish- French alliance, alienate the Scots from Europe, leaving them at the mercy of England. But Margaret was Harry's cousin, and he wasn't about to play politics with her heart. He swallowed down the flicker of nerves that constricted his throat, and refused to take his eye off the earl who was steadily advancing on him.

"Just way are you here, Master Courtenay?" he asked with his eyes narrrowed to slits, "who sent, and why? I can imagine why, but it doesn't stop me wondering about you. I wouldn't trust you as far as I could throw you, so for that reason alone I can issue whatever threats I want. For your measure, Sir, I'll caution you, too: your friends in England are far, far away, and no one around here will come to your aid if you should find yourself in any trouble."

Harry smiled; he almost laughed. "These are threats for schoolboys, my Lord of Angus, now if you excuse me, I find myself suddenly tired."

His insolence was the final straw for the ear, and the blow came sharply across the right side of his face. The pain burned along his left cheekbone, the force had him seeing stars as he reeled back, his fall only broken by the Palace walls. Instinctively, his hand gripped the hilt of his dagger, but he caught himself on before he could draw the weapon. But still, he gripped the handle, and looked the earl full in the face, ignoring the smell of his sour breath that close to his face. "Your temper, Sir, might just be your ruin," Harry hissed at him.

With that, he pushed his way past the earl who had tried to block his path into the Palace. He stiffened his shoulder, and barged his way past, shoving Angus to one side and made him grunt as the air was knocked from his lungs. Harry didn't look back, but silently congratulated himself on making another enemy for life. But, it would be worth it if Margaret could see the real man she was about to marry.

* * *

Sir Charles Brandon. Loitering in the Great Hall, propping up the bars and chasing other men's wives. He was making himself far too comfortable in the Palace for Queen Catherine's liking. He had been a loose cannon firing about the Court since the death of his closest friend, King Henry. His descent was marked by his unshaven face, black eyes – from fighting or from lack of sleep Catherine couldn't tell – and the air of stale alcohol that followed him wherever he went.

"Isn't there something you can do with him?" she asked the Duke of Buckingham one morning.

The two of them were enjoying the first loosening of winter together. The air was almost mild, and the frosts had gone, leaving the turf soft and springing underfoot. But their gentle stroll with the King – now taking his first wobbly steps – had been interrupted by the sight of Brandon asleep on one of the benches in the Queen's gardens. Only pity, and a lingering affection for her late husband's old friend prevented her from having him seized and marched from the palace by the Yeomen.

The Duke looked at Charles, and gave a sad shake of his head. "A spell in the Tower may do him good," he grizzled at length. "These are your private gardens!"

Catherine turned to look at the Duke and saw not a trace of pity in his vivid blue eyes. "Your Grace," she said, "they were also the King's gardens, and the King was his friend."

"He can't mope and mourn for ever!" Buckingham snapped, and instantly calmed as he remembered to whom he was talking. "Forgive me, Your Majesty, I forget myself."

Catherine laughed. "Edward," she said, using his first name. "I think we're here as friends today, not as subjects or courtiers." Despite herself, she blushed, and turned the conversation back around to Brandon. "But, I think you miss my point. I agree he can't mourn forever, that's why I ask if you have a place for him."

Buckingham shrugged; a non-committal gesture. "Nothing," he grunted, and stooped to pick up a stone which he aimed at Brandon, still out cold on the bench. It hit him, and Catherine swung a playful slap at Edward's upper arm as Brandon awoke with a start.

"That," she stated firmly, "was uncalled for."

Buckingham snorted with laughter, and turned to face Catherine with a boyish grin playing at his lips. "That'll teach him to litter your gardens with his unkempt person."

Over on the bench, Charles was quickly coming too, wondering where he was and how he got there. "Your Majesty," he mumbled under his breath, staring at Catherine through the goggles of the previous night's drinking session with the riff-raff that gathered outside the Palace walls. The state her old friend was in tugged at Catherine's conscience.

"Charles," she said, walking over to him and leading Henry by the hand as she did so.

Charles hauled himself to his feet and wavered as he found his balance. "Your Majesty," he said, peering at Catherine and the toddling King through red rimmed eyes. "I beg your forgiveness, I seem to have spent the night in your garden by accident."

Catherine couldn't help but grin. Charles always could turn on the charm when he needed to. He could do it at the drop of a hat. But, she finally found a use for him. "Sir Charles," she said, "I notice you enjoy yourself far too much, and I cannot abide it any longer. Present yourself to me this afternoon in my Presence Chamber. If you pass the Duke of Buckingham's inspection, then I have an important job for you. Fail, and you will be banished from my Court for the rest of this year – until you get your act together."

Charles merely blinked at her for a few moments. It was if he was trying to decide whether or not she was jesting. To err on the side of caution, he swept a stiff bow. "I am yours to command, Your Majesty," he said, injecting as much reverence into his voice as he could.

Catherine almost flinched as she was hit by a gust of sour breath. "I am pleased to hear," she said. "Now prove it."

As they watched him lurch off with a lop sided gait, Buckingham placed his hand on Catherine's arm. She almost pulled away at the sudden contact, but it occurred to her that she did not want to. She turned, and found Buckingham looking at her gently, a softness in his eyes that she did not see very often, a tenderness she had never noted before. She had forgotten what she was going to say, she had forgotten why they were even there.

Luckily for Catherine, Buckingham broke the spell for her. "The King is cold," he said, "let's go back inside."

* * *

"Angus did this, you say?"

Margaret had already had the answer to that question, and Harry thought she asked again in he vain hope that the answer would change. He nodded, and flinched as she touched his raw cheek. It actually wasn't that painful, but he wanted, needed, Margaret to see that the man was a brute and a bully. If that meant behaving like a silly girl the so be it.

"All I did was get in his way," he explained helplessly. "Then he came at me." The mild lie came easily under the circumstances.

Margaret dropped her hand from his face and stood back to get a better look at the damage done. Harry tried to read her expression, but she hid her feelings behind a frown that barely creased her brow.

She sighed. "Well, you can't have got in the way too much," she said with a shrug. "I've seen him almost take a man's eye out just for looking at him the wrong way." She laughed and clicked her fingers for her maid to pour them both another drink.

Harry's heart caught in his throat. "And you still wish to marry him?" he asked, amazed at her lack of concern.

Margaret perched herself in the nearest seat by the fire, and scowled. "You're not even supposed to know about that," she scolded.

He stood, rooted to the spot. She cared more that he knew of their "secret" wedding than she did for Angus's violent ways. All hope deserted him there and then. But then he remembered one last detail.

"He was following a girl out towards the stables." he said. "That Irish girl."

Margaret's expression hardened. "And?" she prompted him, making it sound like a challenge.

Harry suppressed a sigh of exasperation. "Well," he said, throwing his hands up. "What do you think they were doing?"

"They were together, were they?" she asked.

Harry hesitated. This lie didn't come too easily. "Sort of," he cried in response.

"Sort of?" Margaret arched a sceptical brow.

Harry could feel himself wilting under that withering gaze of Margaret's. "He was close behind her," he limped on through the conversation. "She looked at him, and smiled. They are up to something!"

Margaret let out a shriek of laughter. "Harry!" she exclaimed, once she was in control of herself again. "You are my Cousin, so I will let that slander against my betrothed pass." She got to her feet again and closed the gap between them. She stood so close to him that their noses were almost touching. He felt like a child confronted by an angry schoolmaster, again. He felt himself shrink further into himself. "Repeat this once more," she continued icily, "and I will cut out your tongue myself."

Harry let his gaze fall to his feet in shame. Ever since he had come to Scotland, his embassy had gone wrong. He slid from bad to worse, and exacerbated every diplomatic incident he found himself embroiled in. Now, he was powerless to stop his Cousin from making a mistake that could be her own ruin.

For a second, his eyes met hers. Gone was the warmth there, now. "Am I dismissed, Your Grace?" he asked, barely brave enough to conjure more than a whisper now.

She smiled a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Yes, I think so."

He stepped backwards, and bowed deeply before exiting the room. As he turned to leave, he saw that Aislin was on duty – something he had not noticed in his haste to meet with the Dowager Queen. She looked at him now with resentment. If he didn't know any better, he could have sworn she understood every word of what he'd said. He nodded at her in acknowledgement before continuing on his way in rather a hurry. Whatever secrets she harboured would have to wait for another day.


	9. The Path of Least Resistance

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story; your input is greatly appreciated. **Thanks especially to Mimi who has cajoled me along, even when I felt like giving up in the face of one disaster after another**. Thank you! The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this, but for the characters of my own invention. Please read and review, thank you.

* * *

**Chapter Nine: The Path of Least Resistance.**

The Presence Chamber was quiet; the day winding to a close as the sun set on the opposite side of the casements. Queen Catherine waited alone, for the knock on the door she knew deep down would not come, for Princess Mary to appear and they could make their peace. In the ante-chamber, her women waited for her command. The Duke of Buckingham was attending to state business, and she was grateful for it. She didn't know how she felt about him. She wanted him around her, but when he was there, it felt improper. She had to keep reminding herself that they were doing no wrong.

Before she could dwell much longer, however, and her Chamberlain suddenly appeared in the doorway. Perhaps Mary had changed her mind after all? But, when the man spoke, it was simply to announce the arrival of Sir Charles Brandon. Catherine had forgotten she had even summoned him in the first place. She masked her mild disappointment and nodded her command to admit him.

She watched Charles appear through the double doors. He was clean shaven, washed, and wearing the smartest, obviously borrowed, clothes he could get. Finally, he had made an effort. He bowed low, his nose almost touching the floorboards, as he entered.

"Sir Charles," she welcomed him; held out her hand for him to kiss. "I am glad you came."

He rose, but kept his gaze lowered out of respect for her far superior rank. "I ask Your Grace's forgiveness," he intoned, "I promised the late King that I would protect and serve you so long as there was breath in my body. I have failed, but I will do all I can to compensate."

Catherine listened, gratified that her old friend seemed to have made an effort to look at his behaviour. "I hope so," she replied. "For I have an important job for you."

"You do?" he raised his gaze to meet hers, at last. His brow creased, his piercing grey eyes searching hers, full of hope. She had guessed correctly, the man had too much time on his hands. He drank to forget, and drank more to remember to forget. Catherine wanted to do the same, at times. But she was the Queen, she didn't have time to fall apart and cry for the old King. There were always matters of state to attend to, and this was another.

"Princess Mary is to marry King Louis of France," she began explaining the situation, "and I wish for you to escort her there."

He was too slow to hide the flicker of disappointment that marred his features. Catherine saw it; he thought he was nothing more than a babysitter. "This is important, Charles," she said, pointedly. "I am relying on you to protect her, and her plate and jewels for the dowry."

He looked a little happier with that. "I will endeavour to uphold your wishes, Your Majesty." He bowed again in acknowledgement of her request.

"And Charles," she added, "she is not happy."

"I can imagine."

"Be gentle with her," she said, ignoring his interruption but feeling a fresh pang of guilt at the same time. "She is dear to me."

As the days rolled in and out, Catherine's mood continued to be sombre. Her women milled about, reluctant and hesitant, as though wary of getting too close to their mistress. Even Maria spoke only in hushed tones, and when spoken to first. She lifted the King's rattle, and shook it half-heartedly in front of face for a second before dropping it back into his cradle again. Henry had out-grown his old favourite, and scowled at it as pulled himself to his feet. As though to drive home a point, he pointed to Maria de Salinas. "Mama," he said, smiling.

Maria flushed scarlet. "He calls everyone that," she apologetically explained, "don't dwell on it."

But it was the final straw for the Queen. She lifted him out of the cradle he was rapidly outgrowing, and carried him over to her seat by the fireside. "No, Harry," she said, brushing the unruly baby-curls back from his forehead. "I am your Mama. No one else."

The boy frowned. "Mama," he said again, uncertain as though he feared a scolding if he was wrong.

Catherine sighed, looking at him closely. "Never mind," she said, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "I will spend more time with you from now on, I promise."

Catherine had never left her own mother's side when she was a child, and she felt certain that she had benefited from that. It grieved her, also, to see English mothers part with their children when they had barely left infancy. The English could be cold, and was determined not to turn into one of them. Flint-hearted, hard-faced. But affairs of state conspired against her, kept her at her desk until the early hours or in the Counsel Chamber with the other members of the Regency. She did it all for her son; the son who didn't even know who she was.

"Your Grace."

Maria's voice snapped Catherine out of her thoughts with a start. "What is it?" she asked, breathlessly.

"His Grace, the Duke of Buckingham has come."

"Show him in, please."

She tightened her grip on Henry as tried to squirm free in her lap, eliciting a high squeal from the child. A thin, wavering note that made her flinch. When she opened her eyes again, the Duke was before her. He gave a perfunctory bow.

"I did not summon you," she remarked coolly.

The irrational guilt was creeping up on her again. She had only ever loved one man before, and she didn't think she ever would again. But here he was, dressed to kill, and saying he'd just come from the Privy Counsel.

His expression was pained as he looked back at her. "Do I need a summons to just to see how you fair, now?"

Catherine hugged the King close to her breast. "I am the Queen," she reminded the Duke. "You don't just come walking in here whenever it pleases you."

Stafford stepped back, uncertain about whether he was coming or going. "Forgive my intrusion," he said.

She could hear the hurt in his voice. He wanted to be there, and she wanted him there. She wanted to drag him in close, and but couldn't stop herself pushing him away again. She was a widow. She loved her husband. She remembered what she said to Princess Mary: the King is dead. Her emotions collided and conflicted, until she remembered her promise to the child in her lap.

"Edward," she said, reverting to the more intimate name. "I need to be alone with my son. He doesn't know who I am any more." And neither do I, she silently added. "Forgive me."

As thought she sensed her mistress's distress, Maria stepped into the room, and gestured the Duke towards the door. Catherine reinforced the message by turning her face to the fire that burned in the hearth. She didn't catch the Duke's muttered goodbyes.

* * *

Before she slipped out of the Dowager Queen's Chambers, Aislin made sure she had the right shoes on. She had selected a pair of fine silk slippers, not for their quality but for their silence. She could walk across any surface, wood or stone, even in a hurry if she needed to get away quick, and make no noise at all. Satisfied of that, she wrapped herself up in a fine fur over-coat that fell to ankle length – it helped silence the rustling of her skirts, and hurried in the direction of the Earl of Angus's Chambers.

Once she was there, she peered through the keyhole to make sure they were empty. Her luck was out, and she could see Archibald Douglas pacing the floorboards, his hunting hound trailing in his wake, snuffling at his heels. He was waiting for someone. He always did that when he was waiting for people. Disappointment sunk her spirits, but she was not entirely deterred. She had been doing this long enough to know all the Palaces short-cuts, hide aways and enclaves. She followed the corridor that led to the guest apartments, pausing outside Harry Courtenay's for a quick listen. The silence was as heavy as a tomb's; he was out. Her sorrow was eased when she remembered that she was angry with him after he accused her, in front of Queen Margaret, of sleeping with the earl. She pulled a sour face, and moved on swiftly.

She came to a fork in the passageway that led to the servant's quarters. From there, she could get to the hub of the Palace where small, narrow corridors led to the ante-chambers of every set of apartments in the Palace. Almost by second nature she headed for the earl of Angus's. By the time she arrived, he had been joined by the company he was obviously waiting for when she first peered through his keyhole.

There was no keyhole to look through now, the door was barred. But she could hear through the wood panelling what was being said. There were no inconvenient servants around, either, and if any came she would simply play dumb and pretend she spoke no English. It had worked a charm since the day she arrived.

"It's the English boy," said the earl of Angus.

Aislin's senses heightened as she strained to listen for the reply, she needed to know who it was. Finally, she got her reply and as she suspected, it was the new earl of Lennox. "He's not in England now, Archie," he replied, "he lives by our rules, no one elses."

"Listen!" Archibald snapped, "the papers are missing."

Aislin bristled. She took the papers herself to send to her father in Dublin. Even though she couldn't be seen, she inched further back against the small alcove she had wedged herself into. She barely had breathing space, but she had to hear what the Earl was planning next.

"What papers?" the earl of Lennox asked, dumbly.

She heard Angus sigh, and a loud bang as if a door had been slammed. "Our deal with the Germans and their troops," he retorted. "He's taken them, I know he has. The bastard English will know everything by now."

There was a moments silence in the room, but Aislin's heart hammered loudly against her ribs, the sound amplified by her own fear. If she were an insensible woman, she would swear that they could hear it, as well.

"I had them two days passed, and there's been no messengers since last week, The roads are impassable-"

"So you're saying he must still have them?"

"He must do."

Silence. Aislin's heart had finally slowed; in fact, she thought it had stopped altogether. For a long moment she did nothing, but remained frozen, wedged in her alcove as she continued to listen in to the conversation. But the silence between the two men was unbearable. They would kill him if they thought he'd been spying on them – she knew that well enough. But she was so dazed, she needed confirmation.

"We need to get him fast," said the earl of Lennox.

"I have men who can make him talk, have no fear of that."

"We need to finish him, too." Lennox sounded worried. "We can't let him go after this – he'll go running back to that Spaniard and the whole of her Cousin's army will be on our shores before we know it."

Aislin had heard enough. She slid out of her alcove, and padded back down the passage way and out into the servants quarters the way she had come with her skirts hitched above her ankles. Her head was spinning and her stomach churning horribly. She didn't know what to do, or how to do the thing she thought she needed to do. She paused in an empty gallery to get her breath back and think more clearly. She should confess, but then they would kill her and that would be no good to anybody.

After another long moment of indecision, Aislin let her heart rule her head. She hitched her skirts above her ankles, and ran in search of Harry Courtenay.

* * *

Princess Mary extended one slender foot, and nudged at the ashes of the fine silk gown – a gift from the King of France. Hundreds of pounds of the finest French haute coutre sent up in smoke on an angry girl's whim. She smiled in satisfaction. If only the court painter could capture the glowing embers on canvass, and she would gladly send it to Louis, but she did not think that he would get the message, anyway.

Her maids had left her to it, no longer bothering (or daring) to intervene in her fits of tears or anger. They just exchanged anxious looks, and one simply stepped over her as if she were a fallen tree blocking the path. But, after reducing Louis's latest gift to ash, she was relatively pacified when Lady Ursula Pole appeared to inform her of her latest visitor.

"Charles Brandon," said Mary. She knew he was a friend of her brother's, and she knew he was a man of no birth. "This is typical of the Queen lately, to regard me so little as to send a commoner to escort me on the way to my grand marriage." She made no attempt to subdue the bitterness in her tone.

Lady Ursula opened her mouth, but quickly closed it again – worried about bringing on another storm of anger. She turned, but underwent another change of heart. "I'm sure her majesty did not mean it so, Your Grace," she blurted out before she could change her mind yet again. "Her Grace has only yours, and England's best interests at heart."

Mary turned back to face her with a look of utmost distaste. "The Queen has chosen the path of least resistance for her own sake. Now show Mister Brandon in, if it so pleases you."

Entertaining no further thoughts of trying to reason with the Princess, Lady Ursula withdrew from the chamber. Mary could hear a brief exchange from the outer-chamber of her Eltham apartments, and within seconds Charles was bowing low to her. All she could see was the top of his lopsided bonnet.

"Look at me," she said imperiously.

He rose, looking uncomfortable, his gaze darted about the room as though desperately searching for the right words to say in the shadows of the apartments. "The Queen has sent-"

"I know why you're here," she cut across him, saving him the trouble of explaining his presence in her home. "I don't need to hear it again. When are we to leave?"

Charles blinked at her; he looked as terrified as a hind in the hunter's glare. "Wi-within the week, Your Grace," he stammered back at her.

Mary noticed the way that he looked at her, now. His eye was fixed on her, following her as she paced to and fro. "What's wrong with you?" she demanded, wrinkling her nose. "Is it not enough that my dear sister, the Dowager Queen, must send a, er, common man; she had to make you a simpleton, to?"

Charles's jaw dropped, his eyes widened in shock. "A commoner that fought at the side of your brother, the late King-"

"That must be why he's the 'late' King," she cut across him with a smile of pleasure at watching his discomfort.

The man fought hard to keep himself in check, but the colour rising in his face betrayed his rising temper. "I led your brother's troops, Madam. I fought at his side in his name, and in the name of the Queen. If I was good enough for that, I think I'm good enough for this." He paused, looking her up and down insolently. "I could even be better than the task at hand."

Anger flashed in Mary's eyes, but Charles kept his poise. He had scored a point over her, and that was all that mattered to him. He was almost enjoying himself now that he'd got that over her.

"You may leave my presence," she said, gritting her perfect white teeth. "My servants will deign to show you to your chambers."

"You make that sound as if I have a choice," he remarked with a dry laugh.

With a deep breath, she replied; "I'm only being polite. Now go."

She clicked her figures at two figures who lurked in the shadows. Immediately, they stepped forwards and motioned for Charles Brandon to follow them. He did so without one more word to her, not even inclining his head to her. He irked her, even more than she thought he would. She would be sure to write to the Counsel and complain most bitterly about him. Catherine would learn to her own detriment, that Mary was not the path of least resistance.

* * *

Two voices cried out at once; both from opposite ends of the passageway that led to his chambers. Harry spun on his heels trying to locate both sources at once, and trying to walk in two different directions at once. Momentarily dazed, his gaze came to rest on Aislin who gestured to him frantically. He tried to get to her, but the owner of the second voice, Archibald Douglas, had advanced on him too fast, and kicked the feet from under him. Harry hit the ground with a resounding crash as he brought an ornamental suit of armour down after him. Aislin screamed over the clamour and echo, Douglas cursed loudly.

"Shut up, you little bitch!" the earl roared at her, aiming a blow to her jaw.

Harry watched the scene unfold with mounting confusion, but as he saw the earl's fist connect with Aislin's jaw, he was on his feet in seconds with his sword drawn. "Hold!" he cried out, his voice reverberating down the corridor. He was committing an offence by drawing the weapon in the vicinity of the Court, but such violence against a defenceless woman drove the polite niceties of the law right out of him.

Angus left Aislin nursing her bleeding lip and cowering in a corner, and turned slowly to face Harry. "Drop your weapon now," he advised, forcing himself to keep his voice even, "and come with me – we want a little word with you." His cold grey eyes glittered dangerously as he spoke, and ignored the blade at his throat.

Harry was still furious at what he'd seen, and merely drove the tip of his sword deeper into the earl's throat. His arms were trembling with the effort to keep himself from running the man through there and then. "Why should I?" he asked. "Why should I not just kill you now and spare us all a lot of bother?"

"Because you'll fucking hang for it you English sop," laughed the earl, quite unable to believe what he was seeing.

Harry grinned, too. "And if I'm going to hang," he retorted, "I want it to be for a much better reason than you, My Lord."

There was a pause in which the earl seemed to be trying to work out if that was a compliment or an insult. A pause which Harry used to drop his weapon and kick out at the earl's knees, bringing him crashing to the floor where not two minutes previously, Harry himself had fallen. The earl cried out in pain as his knees, already pained from the kick, connected with the flagstones with a sickening crunch.

"Run!" Harry bellowed at Aislin, who was still curled up in the corner, watching with wide eyed terror, blood trickling down her chin. She did not move. "For God's sake, girl, run!"

Without wasting any more precious time, Harry dragged the earl back to his feet and slammed his body into the wall, knocking the wits out of him before he could fight back. But as he tried to throw the earl back to the ground, Angus grabbed a fistful of Harry's hair, and dragged him down, too. Both of them hauled each other around on their knees in a confused mess of a brawl that would have made the bawdiest of drunks blush until a resounding crash brought it all to a sudden halt.

Harry didn't see exactly what happened. But a moment after the crash, the earl of Angus was out cold on the flagstones, and Aislin was standing over him with the breast plate of the ornamental armour in her hands. She was rooted to the spot with fear, her breath coming in short, sharp rasps as her heartbeat raced. "I've killed him," she gasped, "I've killed him!" She turned to gaze to his, desperation in her dark eyes. When they both looked back at Angus, a crimson stream of blood was steadily pooling about his head.

All Harry could say was: "So, you do speak English?"

"Who cares about that?" she asked, looking back at Archibald's body.

Harry pulled himself together. She was right. The time for questions was not at that moment. "Wait, just wait," he said, trying to feel for a pulse. But the sound of approaching footsteps brought him back to his feet. They both stared at the corner, waiting for whoever it was to appear, both too afraid to do anything.

The earl of Lennox appeared, and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw them both standing near Angus's lifeless body. He looked right at them, then to the body of his ally, and back to them again. Comprehension dawned slowly enough for Harry to grab Aislin's wrist and run as fast as he could in the opposite direction.

"We need to get out of here, now," he called over his shoulder as they ran through the Palace.

Aislin made no reply as she struggled to keep up with him. Harry kept running regardless. The girl would have to be left to fend for herself if she lost him. It wasn't his fault that she killed the Dowager Queen's husband-to-be, she was nothing to him. Or at least, that's what he told himself as he kept an ever tightening grip on her wrist and ploughed through the thoroughfare of the Court. People were knocked off their feet as they sprinted past them, and an angry tide of insults followed them as they did so. But Harry was stopping for no man.

Only once they had made it outside, and the stables had come into view, did he pause to catch his breath.

"Grab the first horse you see," he instructed her breathlessly, "any horse, no time to saddle."

Once they were mounted, they were off at a gallop and through the gates and away from Linlithgow for good. They had no possessions but the clothes on their back; no money, and just two stolen horses. He had been in worse situations, he just couldn't think of them off hand.

* * *

Catherine kissed her son goodnight, and watched as he drifted away to sleep. His little face was smooth and relaxed as a deep sleep took him. Three nights in a row now, Catherine had been able to put him to bed herself. Finally, it felt like things were going right. Satisfied that Henry would sleep through the night, she blew out the candle by which she had read him a story, and left quietly.

He was waiting outside for her. Leaning casually against the wall and inspecting his fingernails. He looked up as she appeared in the doorway of the King's privy chamber, and smiled.

"You shouldn't be here," she feebly protested.

He was still smiling. "I know."

"Yet here you are, anyway," she pointed out, but started leading the way back to her own apartments that annexed her son's.

"Are you taking me in here just so you can throw me out again?" he asked.

Catherine laughed. "No, My Lord," she replied, entering her own private space, and gesturing to the table. "Dine with me. My Ladies are here, so behave yourself."

Edward Stafford looked at her across the table and pressed his hands together in a manner of angelic prayer. "Have you ever known me to be any different?" he asked, defying her to contradict him.

Things were going right again, Catherine reminded herself as she sat down opposite the Duke. Her son knows who she is; England has new allies, and Scotland had been brought to heel. For just one night only, she could drop her guard and be a woman again.


	10. Mouse Boots and Wedding Bells

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, and favourited this story: your input is always greatly appreciated. All the usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this (besides the few fictional characters that I have created myself).

Please read and review; thank you again.

* * *

**Chapter Ten: Mouse Boots and Wedding Bells.**

"Hold still."

Margaret chided Archibald Douglas through gritted teeth as she dabbed at the open cut above his left eye. It was where the plate armour had hit him; he was lucky his eye was still in its socket. She dipped the cotton wool back in the basin of warm water at her side on the table, and squeezed, making sure the excess liquid ran clear of blood that congealed on her partner's face. But, as she brought it into contact with the cut, he flinched again, hissing through his teeth. She ignored it, and carried on rubbing in small, circular movements until the matted blood was washed from his brow. The surrounding area was livid with black and purple bruising that stained his temple around a large swelling. It was the morning after the attack, and Margaret knew the second day of an injury was worse than the first, as though the intervening time allowed for the flesh to tenderise, rather than heal in any way. But still, his constant flinching was making her job harder, and grated her nerves.

"Little bastard could have killed me," he said, sensing she had almost finished. "This is an act of war, you know that."

Margaret rolled her eyes as she handed the bowl with the bloodstained water to one of her ladies. "What would you have me do, Archie?" she asked, turning back to kiss his uninjured cheek. "Hang him?"

"You must catch him first-"

"And I'm on it," she retorted hotly, "I am taking this seriously, my love, believe me. But I cannot just hang a foreign national, and not one who's in the service of the Queen of England and my cousin."

Archibald wasn't about to be deterred, though. He rose stiffly to his feet, putting on a show of bravery in the face of injury, and took her in his arms. "Tell Catherine that you regard this as an act of war," he said, concealing his lie behind a smile. "I know Henry of Exeter is your Cousin, but he tried to murder me." He raised his eyes to the Earl of Lennox who hovered in the outer chambers, just out of Margaret's line of vision, and winked at him from over her shoulder.

Margaret stiffened and pulled away as though he burned her.

"What is it?" he asked, sensing her dramatic mood change.

She frowned, making her eyes darken. "I just can't believe that Harry could do a thing like this," she said in an undertone. "None of it makes sense."

Archibald pulled her back into his arms and ran his hands through her auburn hair, teasing it out from under her headdress. "I don't think he was acting under his own orders," he whispered in her ear, pressing a kiss against the soft skin of her throat. "He's been in constant touch with that prelate Catherine keeps at her side like a lap-dog, and he's written to the Duke of Buckingham. I bet they gave him the order to do this."

Margaret stiffened again. "What about the girl?"

"He's abducted her," he replied. "She was due to marry Lennox, you know."

Aislin was due to marry Lennox's father, but he was killed at the Battle of Flodden just before she arrived. It had seemed expedient to all parties to marry her, instead, to that Lennox's son, the earl that now is. "Why did he take her?" asked Margaret.

"She was a witness, wasn't she? He couldn't leave her hanging around," he replied, wincing against a sudden twinge of pain. He was trying to distract her; to stop her from thinking too much about it. "Gretta," he whispered, falling back to his familiar name for her. "Concentrate on the wedding, now. I'll lead the search for the criminal, and you pick a frock."

Margaret tightened her grip on him, pulling him in closer. "Let's do it tonight," she said abruptly. "I've had enough of this; we're doing it today. The Counsel can hang for all I care, nothing will keep me from you."

Archibald looked at her, her face was set, resolute. He could hardly believe his luck. "Are you serious?"

"Deadly serious," she replied matter of factly. "Meet me at the Chapel of Saint Augustin at seven. Bring witnesses, and I will bring my lawyers and a Bishop. Do not be late, my lord. I want your son in my belly by tomorrow morning." She winked at him, let him go, and marched from the room with an air of triumph. Archibald watched her march from the room leaving nothing but a cloud of rosewater in her wake, her ladies scurrying after her. A small smile of bewildered triumph spread across his face.

* * *

Every sound in the abandoned house seemed amplified to impossible proportions. It meant every mouse that scratched along the skirting boards, and every roof beam that creaked under the weight of its age set their hearts racing. As a Gentleman should, Harry Courtenay gallantly allowed Aislin to cling to him like a barnacle to a ship every time it happened.

"There's somebody here," she hissed in his ear as she lay shivering with fear beside him on a mattress that hadn't been aired in aeons. The whole house reeked of damp and decay, and another of the ancient timbers had just groaned under an unseen weight.

Harry turned over to face her, but all he could see where her coal black eyes glittering in the moonlight that slanted through the casement windows – a miracle, given the grime that had built on the leads. "It's only the mice," he tried to assure her.

"With boots on?" she asked, incredulous, the glitter of her eyes getting brighter.

"Only little ones," he said, raising a smile she probably couldn't see in the darkness. "Special mouse boots. Honestly, we're alone here."

He knew that to be truly gallant, he would have to get out of the bed they were sharing, and go downstairs to check for signs of human life. She was silently pleading with him; he was picking that up loud and clear. "Wait here," he said, rolling off the mattress and landing on his feet with a soft crunch. His feet made contact with a thick layer of dust. Behind him, Aislin sighed with relief. An old poker lay propped against the empty hearth, the fire they dared not light in case it attracted unwanted attention, and he handed it to her. "To defend yourself with," he told her. "Just in case."

Harry directed himself toward the solid patch of darkness that he knew to be the door, and eased it open on its rusty old hinges. Outside in the corridor was more opaque space with a steep staircase that he was keen to stay on the right side of. Just as he reached the doorway of the bedroom, however, her voice called him back. He paused, looking over his shoulder to where he could just make out her darkened form sitting up in the bed with the poker across her lap, a mass of hair, backlit by the silver moon, tumbled over her narrow, pale shoulders. His heart ached, but he didn't know why.

"Be careful," she said, plain and plaintive.

He hesitated before replying, as though thinking of something reassuringly macho to batter down her fears. "I will," was all he eventually said.

In the days since they had killed the earl of Douglas, they had made good progress across the country, but they were still a long way from the English border. They rode hard all through the day that followed, until it was too dark for them to see a few feet in front of their faces. The house was abandoned, there weren't even any groundsmen tending to the gardens, so they knew rightly no one would intrude on them there. But this sanctuary would not last. Aislin was right to fear the return of the occupant's staff at any moment, and he knew they would have to be gone well before dawn.

He reached the staircase and cautiously prodded his right foot forwards, feeling for the first step with his hand firmly grasping the wooden rail. Slowly, one cautious foot before another, he descended into the impermeable darkness that waited below. Unarmed, tired from two days solid riding with almost no sleep, he knew he was defenceless against anyone who might be waiting down there. But he knew already it was empty. Their imaginations were running away with them, running even faster than they had.

But he needed time to think away from Aislin. It was all very well him assuring her, but he knew they had killed a man – and he made it plain to Aislin that he would fully accept his portion of the blame, even if it was her who wielded the weapon. But, would Catherine protect him? Would she hand him back to the Scots to face trial? She had every right to, and the risk was one he had to weigh up carefully.

He reached the foot of the stairs and felt for the latch on the door. The cool breeze from the window he had broken to get inside now swept through the ground floor, making the high whistling noise that had been frightening Aislin half to death upstairs. He almost laughed. Here was there intruder; just a ghost on the wind, a false alarm. He opened the door, revealing the first pale sliver of the dawn.

* * *

Fine vellum sheets of paper brushed against each other as the book fell open on Queen Catherine's lap, resting at the spot where the weight of the flower pinned down the pages. The flower, the rose given to her by the Duke of Buckingham, had dried perfectly while pressed inside the book. Now it would never fade or wilt. She smiled, and replaced the old, heavy book on the shelf.

When she turned from the bookcase back into the room, Maria De Salinas entered with a message resting on a plump velvet cushion. Her eyes were downcast as she curtsied to the Queen.

"From Scotland, Your Grace," she explained holding up the cushion.

Catherine took a deep breath and went to collect the letter. Sure enough, Queen Margaret's heavy seal pulled at the envelope as she picked it up. Messages from her former sister-in-law always brought a shadow of anxiety to her heart, and this was no different. "Better fetch Wolsey for me, Maria," she said, turning the letter over in her hands.

Maria ducked another curtsey before slipping from the Privy Chamber at a soft-footed trot. Catherine peered into Henry's crib where his maid gently rocked him from side to side, lulling him into a deep sleep. He was two years old, but still nothing got him to sleep like that old trick. Assured of her son's well being, she used a knife to prize the seal off the letter, and got the feeling she would need to be sat down for this one and let herself slump backwards into her favoured fireside seat. The letter began in the usual, perfunctory manner: Margaret commended herself heartily onto her gracious highness, and prayed she kept in good health and cheer. But the message that followed the customary salutations had her stomach in knots and a cold sweat beading her brow.

"Jesu," she softly said as she read over the letter again. Even though she was sitting down, she still gripped the armrest for support, to weight herself to consciousness.

When Maria reappeared with Thomas Wolsey at her side, Catherine found her mouth was almost too dry to speak. "Read this," she finally choked, pushing the letter into the newly-elected Bishop's gloved hand. "The Queen has married her Rat of a Lover, and are accusing our ambassadors of acts of war against her new husband's person. Have you heard anything like this?" The words were out in a rush, and her head was still reeling from what she's read. "As if Harry Courtenay could do such a thing?"

Wolsey glanced from the letter briefly up at Catherine, but made no remark. Silently, he carried on reading, absorbing the information with no visible sign of discomfiture. His expression, as always, was unruffled and affable. Almost casually, he folded the letter and handed it back to Catherine as thought its contents were perfectly routine, and sat opposite her with a smile.

"I wouldn't panic, Your Grace," he said, ever smooth even in the face of danger. "Douglas is loathed by the Counsel, so even if they do catch Courtenay they'll probably only give him a knighthood. As for the rest of it: posturing and preening. Douglas is using the Scots Queen to stamp his power on the Country. But she is isolated, and he will be joining her in that isolation."

Catherine tried to see the sense in Wolsey's words, but she couldn't help but think him complacent in the extreme. "They are accusing us of acts of war, Thomas," she stated, paraphrasing from the letter itself. "She – Margaret – made it quite clear that this so-called murder attempt was done on our orders!"

"Your Majesty," Wolsey held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture, "Margaret is no longer on the Counsel, and they won't go to war just because the earl got into a fight with one of our men. We need to get him back, so we can hear his side of the story."

His side of the story. Catherine felt the pent up tension suddenly drain from her. It was true, she hadn't heard Harry's side of the story, and it was bound to be completely at odds with the Earl's, and she knew who she would believe in the end. "He would never try to kill anyone," she said, emphasising the point all the same. "I have known him since he was a small boy, he would not murder, and he would not abduct anyone, either. Margaret will have to do better than this if she wants to lure this country into another war."

Catherine calmed, letting her head drop into her hands as she rubbed the tiredness from her eyes. Wolsey looked relieved. "We still need to deal with Courtenay," he said, studying the folds in his garment. "This really is a spectacular failure, regardless of what his side of the story is. I know you regard him as family, but some action must be taken and it may appease the Scots; if nothing is done it could weaken Margaret's position, and we might not want that, either. She is generally favourable to her English roots."

Catherine breathed a sigh of resignation. "I know," she reluctantly conceded. "Place him under arrest as soon as he sets foot on English soil. Have Northumberland and Norfolk see to it."

Wolsey nodded. "I have news that may please you," he said, throwing her sinking mood a lifeline.

She looked up sharply. "Oh! Please."

The other man's face lit up in a smile. "I have had word from Charles Brandon," he explained, "a briefing written just before his party set sail for France with the Princess safely on board."

Catherine's tension broke and she laughed with relief. Her alliance would soon be complete, and England and France would be united against Scotland. Her father, although ageing, ensured her alliance to Spain remained in tact. All the pieces of diplomatic game were finally falling into place.

"If my father has another son with my, er, step-mother," Catherine had never met Germaine of Foix, sometimes she even forgot that her father had remarried at all. But needs must.

"Forget it," Wolsey said, second guessing her. "As soon as Louis dies, there will be other French nobility for Mary to wed. Beside, the age gap would be unseemly. The wait too long for both parties."

Catherine shrugged, it was barely more than a flight of fancy. She turned to her Lady in Waiting, Elizabeth Stafford, and ordered drinks for them both. They needed it, and they finally had cause for minor celebration.

* * *

Charles Brandon took a backwards jump, but not far enough, nor fast enough. The Princess retched and heaved right over his boots as the boat rolled violently from one side to the other. With a groan she fell back against the mattress she was lying on and covered her face with her hands in shame. Brandon tried not to laugh. This was a journey he'd made several times before, and his sea-legs were almost a natural part of him, now.

"Never mind, Your Highness," he stated breezily as he sat himself down in her cabin. "Msitress Boleyn is on hand to help, I see."

He made eye contact with the pretty blond who'd travelled from France to England to join Mary's household. She was English born, naturally, but had already been in France for a number of years. Charles's attentions made her blush to the roots of her hair. "Why so shy, Mary?" he laughed, watching as Mary wrung out a cloth and dabbed at Mary's chin, wiping off the residual vomit that clung to her chin.

"Pay him no heed, Mistress Boleyn," Mary instructed, recovering her composure swiftly, "he is a rake and a vagabond. You should have seen the way in insulted me before we left."

Mary Boleyn smiled, but concentrated on the task at hand rather than making any effort to join the conversation.

"I only came to tell you that we dock in two hours," he informed the Princess. He couldn't see her properly now, Mary Boleyn was leaning over her, still dabbing at the Princess's face with the damp cloth.

At first, Charles thought that Mary had not heard him. "Are you teasing me again, Master Brandon?"

He affected an expression of hang-dog innocence. "Moi?" he asked, looking about as though there may have been some other Charles Brandon, an evil twin, in the cabin beside him.

Princess Mary giggled. She had been sea-sick from the moment they set sail across the Narrow Sea, and this was the first time since that moment that he had seen her smile or heard her laugh. "You tease me continually and you know it, sir," she chided him, but the anger of their first meeting had melted away to a jocular teasing note.

She tried to sit up, but her spinning head made it impossible. Instead, she let Mistress Boleyn lay her back down against the mattress that had been her home for the last twenty-four hours. Despite it all, she was excited about seeing France, and her new subjects. "Can you believe," she said, speaking softly, "that in just two days, I will be Queen of France?"

Charles fell silent for a moment, averting his gaze to the floor even though she couldn't see him. "Then my work here will be done," he said. He tried to follow it up with a quip, or a self-effacing witticism. But he failed himself.

Mistress Boleyn stood up, steadied herself by reaching up to the roof beam until she got her footing on the swaying boat, and stepped aside, clearing Charles's view of the Princess. They had lapsed into a contemplative silence as each weighed the other up. Until Mary lifted her head groggily from the pillow. "You're a gentleman, Master Brandon."

"I know," he replied. He couldn't explain the regret that filled his heart; his sudden reluctance to admit that his job was almost done. Instead, he got to his feet and bowed as best as he could against the motion of the ship. "I will return after we dock," he informed her.

"Oh!" cried Mary as she hauled herself up. "Don't go. Stay here with us."

She looked at him, wide sapphire eyes imploring, her rosebud lips parted slightly revealing her perfect teeth. Such a rare feature on anyone, teeth like that. But the Princess herself was a rare feature in herself. He wanted to stay. He paused by the door, ready to just close it again. But his head had other ideas. "I cannot," he told her regretfully. "But I will be back as soon as the docks come into view."

He wanted her to ask again, just one more time. He knew he would be unable to refuse. But she shrugged. "Fare you well," she said, a small smile on her face. "Don't forget us."

"I can try," he whispered as he left the room with just the briefest of looks at her.

Out on deck, the bracing sea air cleared his head and re-focused his mind on the task at hand. He had a Queen to convey to Paris, and a dowry to safely transport. He watched the waves rolling them onwards, the tides clashed and converged to bring them safely home, no matter how hard he prayed they would not. Perhaps they could be swept off course, and she would be spared marriage to an ageing husk of a King, but the fates were not shining on them that day, and rightly he knew it. The gulls wheeled over-head, their cries cutting across the crash of the waters, and dived at their unseen prey. He was watching one glide up from the jaws of the sea with a silver fish snatched between its razor sharp beak as he felt a sudden presence at his side.

"You are good to my Mistress," said Mary Boleyn.

He turned to watch her, the wind was blowing her hair back from her face, showing her high cheekbones and her dark eyes clearly for the first time. The blond tendrils of hair flowed out behind her like so many flaxen ribbons. Some, and Charles was one, would call her beautiful.

"It's my job," he said, pointedly.

Mary looked almost abashed. "Sorry," she stammered, "I didn't mean to infer..." her words were lost in the wind as her voice weakened.

Charles chided himself for his sharpness. "It's all right, my lady," he said, and quickly fished for conversation. "Tell me, who's waiting for you in France?"

"My father, Sir Thomas Boleyn," she replied, and then turned to look back at the waves as they pulled them inexorably onwards. She offered no more.

Charles was inexplicably disappointed to hear of a male relative being on hand. They always complicated things. "I forgot," he admitted. "He's the French Ambassador, isn't he?"

Mary grinned and nodded. "My Sister, Anne, will be joining us too," she explained, finally turning her back on the sea and leaning against the handrail. Finally, he had her attention. "I have not seen Anne for three years, since she left us to go to the court of Margaret of Austria."

"So there's two of you young maids, is there?" he asked, flashing her a grin.

Mary was fast, though. "And our father," she pointedly reminded him, "we mustn't forget Papa". With that, she pushed herself off from the rail, and wove her way back inside the ship, her body swayed in time to the rolling of the ship. As she receded from view, he turned back to the horizon. A great, green bulk of France appeared suddenly on the opposite side of the ship's hull. He would have seen it sooner had he not been so distracted. Finally, their journey had reached its end.

* * *

Maria stoked the fire in the hearth of the Privy Chamber, not stopping until the flames were licking the chimney breast at the back. She stoked it like it had done her a personal wrong. Catherine watched her, not speaking nor seeing, but lost in her own thoughts that carried her partly to Scotland, and partly to Buckingham. Her hand was curled around a pewter goblet of warmed wine that had long since pouring gone cold. Without shifting her gaze, she spoke softly.

"Has Margaret really committed such a sin in marrying a man she loves?" she asked.

Maria put down the poker, and took her place at Catherine's side. At the back of the room, the nursemaid rocked the King to sleep. Catherine was almost lost in the rhythmic creaks of the rocker, but she still caught her old friend's reply.

"I think it no sin, Your Grace," she said. Catherine was relieved at this approval from her old friend, but quickly deflated again when Maria continued: "But it was not her choice to do so. She has lost everything on one rash decision. Her son, her hold on the Counsel, and her reputation-"

"Why?" Catherine demanded, suddenly angry. "For all we know he loves her as much as she loves him."

Maria, however, was oblivious to the Queen's distress. "It is a matter of State," she explained, "this man is of ill-repute, and she has tarnished her name in associating with such a creature. But even so, love doesn't come into it. She should have had her son's Kingdom and future in mind when she married. She should have built a strong alliance for his sake. It is selfish of her to have done otherwise. But I suppose it is no real sin."

It was not what Catherine wanted to hear as she thought of Edward Stafford. "But you love Sir William Willoughby, don't you? And I have freely given my permission for you to marry him for that very reason."

Maria sighed. "But I am not Queen, and I have no international interests to protect."

Catherine fell silent as she watched the logs burning. Eventually, she said: "I will not formally condemn my Sister for marrying this man. She has done no wrong."

Edward drifted hazily through her thoughts. He would be arriving soon, and then she would be happy again.

* * *

Hadrian's Wall stretched for as far as their eyes could see. Rambling, crumbling, but definitely Hadrian's Wall. They dismounted their tired horses. Just one more step forwards, and the Scots army they knew must be chasing them by now would not be able to touch them. Harry took Aislin's hand in his, and they turned to look at each other.

"It's just you and me, now," he said.

A rose blush flushed Aislin's cheeks. "You and me."

They took their horses reins in their free hands, and together, they crossed the crumbling wall into English territory. The ordeal that had thrown them violently together felt almost at an end as their feet landed in tandem on English turf. It was the end of one thing, and the start of quite another.


	11. Lie Back and Think of England

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your input means a lot. As always, the usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this (with the exception of my two fictional characters, Aislin and Henry IX).

**There are some scenes of a sexual nature in this chapter**, so please be warned about that.

Please read and review, thank you.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: Lie Back and Think of England.**

The crystal glass chimed as Maria tapped her nail against it; holding it up the sunlight to inspect for errant fingerprints. A ritual she repeated with the second glass. She didn't approve of what was happening, and had already made her displeasure known to the Queen. But nonetheless, she had a job to do. Once she was finished with the glasses, she turned her eagle eye to the fine, silver, cutlery with a linen cloth; rubbing with vigour at invisible blemishes that marred their flawless surface. As Maria replaced the final fish-knife, an elaborate centrepiece of stuffed swan and sugared fruits just about managed to edge around the aperture in the doorway.

Tilting her head to one side, she could just see Elizabeth Stafford's face peeping out from the behind the wing. "Is that you, Beth?" she asked, just to be sure.

"Aye, Madam," came the breathless reply, "you couldn't lend a hand, could you? I don't want to drop it."

"I'll box that kitchen boy's ears for making you struggle with that," said Maria as she rushed to help her fellow lady in waiting.

Once it was in place the two women stood back from the table to survey the overall effect. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" Elizabeth said, still flushed in the face from her exertions. "The Queen will love it."

"Hmm," replied Maria, hand on hip. "What does it remind you of, Beth?"

Elizabeth looked up at Maria, her expression clouded. "It reminds me of what it is?" she answered. "A table set for an important dinner."

"It's a wedding feast, my lady," Maria explained curtly, "and mark my words – no good will come of it."

"My father would not bring the Queen into disrepute, Madam," Elizabeth bristled, "he would sooner lose his head than bring her highness's honour into question. This isn't Scotland."

Maria sagged, her obvious anger melting visibly. "I didn't mean it like that, Beth," she said, taking Elizabeth's hand and leading her to the antechamber where they could await the Queen and her guest. "Catherine and I have known your father for a long time, and no better Gentleman exists anywhere. But will the people see it that way? Will they see his love for her, or will they see an over-mighty subject looking to control an infant King? We're sworn to secrecy about all this -" she broke off, and waved a hand in the direction of the dinner table "-and that makes it look worse. Like there's something to hide."

The clandestine nature of the meeting had passed Elizabeth by, and now she felt more cautious. She knew her father, and she knew how other women felt about him. Many had whispered behind their hands, speculating as to why he never remarried after the death of the Duchess, almost six years previously. A man like that going to waste! Then, with the King in his grave for barely two years, he moves in on the Queen herself. She could see how it could look to others. But still, she reasoned, two years is two years. Only one is required for official mourning.

"Lady Maria," said Elizabeth, "it is not as though my father leapt into the Queen's bed as soon as the King was safe in his grave. He has done nothing wrong. I advise we give them the time they need to decide their feelings for one another and what their future holds."

Elizabeth had weighed up both sides of the argument, but her father would always have her full support. Her own husband, the Duke of Norfolk, she knew, would support her, too. He would do well out of being married to the Queen's step-daughter. But, she could see that Maria was still reticent. Her mouth was drawn down, her melancholy gaze resting on the dinner table as if there was a poisoned chalice resting there.

* * *

The Howards were like a flock of birds, or so Catherine thought. One of the clan would land in Court, and soon the others all flew in, too. So it was that Catherine had a new, Howard, Lady in Waiting; to compliment her new, Howard, Governor of Calais, and her Howard Gentleman Usher. Then, of course, was the Duke himself. But the new Lady, Elizabeth Howard, was more than pleasing for Catherine. Her husband, Thomas Boleyn, had undertaken several Embassies to France, and come up with gold every time, his most recent success being the new alliance with Louis.

At that moment, Elizabeth returned to Catherine's chambers bearing a large document furnished with numerous seals, and a the great Privy Seal. Inside of it was the Act of Parliament that ratified the first, larger, document. Elizabeth handed it over with a curtsey.

"Thank you, Elizabeth," said Catherine, taking the documents and rolling them out on a table in the Counsel Chamber.

Elizabeth produced paperweights, and placed them at the corners of each document to stop it from rolling itself straight back up again. "There you go, Madam," she said, "and there's the clause you're looking for."

Before Catherine could even read the title of the document, Elizabeth had spotted the part she was looking for. It was Henry VIII's Will, and the document needed to prove that it had been ratified by Parliament,.

Catherine breathed a sigh of relief as she read over the clause that Elizabeth pointed to.

"It's good news?" asked Elizabeth.

Catherine nodded. "Henry has left me free to remarry at will," she confirmed with a smile.

"With no consequences?"

She shook her head. "None. I am free to marry where I will, and none of my family can stop me. The only requirement is that I remain here in England, so a foreign match is out."

Elizabeth returned the Queen's smile. "Forgive the presumption, Your Grace, but I think your intended match is a little closer to home than that." She finished with a suggestive wink that made Catherine giggle like a girl.

"That reminds me," said Catherine, "He's coming Courting soon. Help me with my gown and hair, will you?"

Elizabeth gave a vigorous nod as she flung open the door of the dusty old Counsel Chamber. They set off together through the Palace of Richmond, nodding and beaming at the bowing Courtiers, with a spring in their step.

* * *

It was cold, it was dark, and it was raining. To compound matters, Harry and Aislin were hungry and exhausted after several days on the road. But the Abbot of the Monastery where they sought a night's refuge was looking at them from the depths of a cowl that covered his face, oozing suspicion and animosity. Harry wanted to kick the man; Aislin was almost in an exhausted faint, clinging on to him as though he were the only thing keeping her weighted to consciousness.

"My wife is sick," he tried explaining the situation again, "she is with child, and must rest. We'll be gone by morning, I swear."

By law, they should have been admitted the moment they arrived with no questions asked. "Wife, you say, child?" the man asked from inside his rough woollen cowl.

Harry stamped his foot. "Yes!" he hissed, exasperated. "My wife. Pregnant. With child. Sick. Needs shelter in your fine Abbey – or is it only thieves you offer sanctuary to today?"

The Monk shuddered at the word 'pregnant' as though it were something obscene. But Harry's real fear was that the Monk simply saw through his lies. Sanctuary was never given to unmarried couples, so they lied about that. He threw in the pregnancy to give their case a bit more urgency. To his relief, however, the Monk stepped aside and gestured for them to follow him. He led the way around the darkening Abbey, and to a yard around the back where a wattle and daub hut lay squat in the distance. It looked like a barn.

"We're not with the mules and chickens, are we?" asked Aislin, suddenly revived and utterly horrified.

The monk came to a sharp halt, and turned to face Aislin. "Irish?" he asked.

Harry wished he could see the man's face. "What of it?" he asked, his own suspicions rising now.

The Monk made no reply, but turned back towards the dwelling. "It's a shelter – there are no animals in there. Bread and ale will be sent out soon," he eventually added.

They entered the small, circular, hut to be enveloped in warmth from the fire that burned in the center of the room; the smoke curling out of a small hole in the roof. There was no furniture, just a small pallet bed and a stack of threadbare blankets folded against the wall. The floor was plain beaten earth. Once they were safely inside, the Monk left them to fetch the food and drink they were entitled to. Their horses, they presumed, were also being safely stabled for the night.

Harry tilted Aislin's chin up so that they were facing each other. "Are you all right?" he asked, worried by how pale she looked, how thin she had gotten from just a few weeks on the road. Her lower lip trembled; tears glittered in her deep, dark, eyes. "I'm scared," she confessed. "I'm scared of what will happen to us. We killed a man, Harry. Margaret's bound to have written to Queen Catherine, and by now everyone will know what I did. I'll hang for it. We can run all we like, but they will catch us, and I will hang-"

Harry cut her off with a kiss. It was an unpremeditated act; an impulse, but something he felt had been a long time coming. Aislin didn't pull away, she softened into his arms, but a tear slipped silently down her face all the same. They kissed so close that Harry felt it, too. Only when they heard the sound of footsteps approaching the door did they stop. The Monk didn't bother knocking, and left a tray of food and a jug of ale on the floor beside the door.

"Thank you, Father," said Harry.

The monk paused by the door, looking at them both, still with his cowl pulled low over his face. It struck Harry as odd, but it was cold still. They were both relieved when the man disappeared again. When they were alone again, they remained silent and simply looked into one another's eyes. Aislin raised a wan smile, but her eyes twinkled in the firelight as she wrapped her arms around his neck, lowering him to the ground, just beyond the reach of the fire.

"I wanted you the moment I saw you," she whispered low in his ear.

Her gown slipped easily over her narrow shoulders, but Harry fumbled over the lacing of her bodice. She brought one hand up to help him, while with the other she liberated him of his shirt, tugging it clumsily over his head. Their clothes made a comfortable mattress between them and the earthen floor. For a moment, they simply looked at each others naked bodies as they sat near the back of the hut. Her skin was the colour of honey in the firelight, her eyes glittered like onyx, dark and beautiful.

Eventually, Harry's gaze met hers as they leaned in to kiss again. "I love you," he murmured as their lips met.

This time, they did not part. They entwined themselves in their own embrace and eased down to lie flat on the ground, exploring each other's bodies with their hands, probing and massaging each others flesh. From the nape of his neck, Aislin ran her nails down his chest, over his taut stomach, the sensation making his flesh tingle in anticipation. He responded by trailing kisses down her smooth throat, delighting in the little gasps that it elicited form her. Harry moved his hand down to her bare thigh, feeling the tender flesh. In response, she wrapped her legs around him, ensnaring him between her thighs.

"I need you," Harry breathed, the sound almost lost amidst the soft crackling of the fire.

"Now," she finished the sentence for him.

His passion caught his tongue, but he carried on kissing her, exploring every inch of her with little kisses, nipping at her tenderly with his teeth to make her sigh and gasp with desire. She couldn't wait any longer. With a quick movement, she coaxed him into her, spreading herself for ease of access. She moaned with delight as he entered her, the small pain of entry pushing her into ecstasy. Bracing his knees against the floor, cushioned by Aislin's gown, realising he was taking her virginity, he started slowly and took care to be gentle.

He yearned for her; savoured every moment of her as he felt their bodies fuse. But as ever, the gentleman won it. "Give me the word, and I'll stop."

"Harder," she gasped in reply, digging her nails into his back as if keeping him in place.

He was happy to oblige by picking up the pace, thrusting harder in time to her groans of pleasure. As their love making progressed, words escaped them both as their passions won control of them, and they submitted to their lusts happily. Together, they reached their climax, their bodies fused making them one with each other. It felt like nothing else on earth for them both as the orgasm carried them to seventh heaven. Then, as quickly as it started, it ended. Spent; breathless, they fell back against the floor in each other's arms to catch their panting breath. No words were spoken, nor needed to be spoken, as they curled into each other's arms and drifted into a peaceful sleep.

* * *

Their meal was beautiful. Fresh manchet bread and cheese for starters, followed by roast guinea fowl and capons. Beef and stuffed parsnips for the main course, and especially crafted little marchpane delicacies for dessert. Catherine sampled a little of everything that was on the menu, and washed it down with the finest French wines – sent by Louis as a 'thank you' for sending him a beautiful, young, Princess for his bed.

Edward Stafford, however, seemed distracted. He picked at his meal, and spent more time staring at his wine than actually sipping at it. Then he picked at a loose thread in the sleeve of his doublet. He seemed to look anywhere other than at Catherine. It was beginning to grate on her nerves, until it was clear to her that it was his own nerves that had him all tied up. His daughter, Beth, had been sent into the Royal Nursery for the night to try and help ease the nerves, but it didn't seem to be having much effect.

Eventually, Catherine decided more needed to be done. "Let us both reach the point," she said, setting down her fork and dabbing at her mouth with a silk napkin. "We both know our feelings well enough by now."

"Do we?" he answered with great uncertainty. His expression was rather sad, but there was still a mischievous glitter in his blue-grey eyes.

The Queen smiled at his self deprecation. "I think you should know, all your attentions are warmly received, and I find myself somewhat..." her words failed her as she struggled to articulate exactly how he made her feel. She didn't want to tell him she was falling in love with him, she didn't want to expose herself to the vulnerability of such an admission.

Edward's gaze dropped as he took up toying with his eating knife. Catherine had to quickly stifle a laugh as she realised he was blushing like a love-lorn schoolboy; he had lowered his head to try and disguise it. But when he looked up again, he had quite regained control of himself. "I need to know," he said, "is this a Courtship, Your Grace?"

Catherine let the question hang in the air for a moment. "Yes, my lord of Buckingham, I believe it is."

They both reached for their glasses to drink deeply, both hiding their triumphant smiles. A Courtship it was.

* * *

It seemed to Princess Mary that no sooner had they arrived in France, that she was being led down the aisle. The chapel was adorned with great banners of the fluer de lys and the Tudor Rose. Their emblems entwined in lover's knots. The people, Mary's new subjects, had flocked to see her, spoke so openly of her beauty that it made her blush to the roots of her already auburn hair.

"Make them stop, Charles," she whispered to Brandon, who was at her side in the carriage taking her to the chapel.

But Charles simply laughed. "And why would I do that?" he asked, teasingly. "They speak only the truth. Don't they ladies?"

He glanced over his shoulder to where Mary and Anne Boleyn – the sisters reunited in France – sat side by side in the back seat. They blushed, as though it were a contagious illness, and giggled into their hands. Mary couldn't help but notice that Charles had that affect on a lot of women, and she wasn't sure that she approved of it. She wasn't sure that she approved of her own jealousy, either. She had to remind herself that she was about to be married, to be Queen of France.

She was glad to be out of the carriage once the time came, but then she knew she would be marrying the old man. He was fifty-two, been married twice already but gotten no sons from either wife, and she – Mary – knew that she was expected to fill that void. Once outside the Church, Anne and Mary immediately set about her dress and train. Like her Sister-in-Law, Queen Catherine, Mary opted for a white wedding dress of silk; silver and cream taffeta and velvet to make up the skirts and train. She was almost weighted down with the jewels her new husband had given to her, topped off with a huge ruby of vibrant red. She had never seen a white wedding dress before Catherine wore one when she married Arthur.

Once she was ready, she clutched her bouquet of flowers, and watched as the doors to the church swung open. Inside, she could see the whole place thronged with the nobility of France. She walked forwards, chin held high as she went to meet her fate head on. But before she walked three paces, a man in immaculate clothes suddenly rushed forwards and didn't stop until I had barged Charles out of the way.

Mary's temper rose. "Sir, I pray you-"

"Forgive me, Madam," the man said, bowing deeply to her, "but there is no need for 'im -" he jerked his head in Charles' direction. "I am Francois, the King's heir, and I have been assigned to escort you down the aisle."

He straightened up and looked at her with an expression of unconcealed lust, like he was stripping her naked in his mind. But Mary's anger had broken into panic. "I would like to have my English Gentleman with me," she protested as Francois started leading her into the Church. She cast a desperate look over her shoulder, expecting Charles to step and do something. But, she knew rightly, he could not. He could not argue with one as high as Francois. As she was swallowed up by the church building, she couldn't bring herself to try and look at Charles again.

Once inside, biting back tears, Mary looked around at the sea of faces who all turned in tandem to get a look at her. There was a collective "ahh" rippling around the assembled masses, and all eyes followed her progress down the aisle. Tears dripped down her cheeks; tears of anger, sadness and despair. She would have been all right if only her English entourage could have stayed with her; if only Charles could have stayed with her.

"Madam," said Francois, concerned now. "Is everything to your liking?"

He had noticed her tears, and embarrassed her. "It is beautiful," she replied, forcing herself to beam. "I am so happy!"

She felt like a lamb being marched to the slaughter. Francois sighed with relief as he deposited her at the altar and retreated to the pews with his wife, Claude. Mary, however, cast around for a sign of her new husband. As per custom, she had not yet seen him in person. Then he materialised at her side from behind her. Their eyes met, bringing another wave of grief stricken emotion over her; more tears that needed to be disguised behind a veneer of happiness. His face was lined, and his back was bent. He looked every day of his fifty-two years. She had to stop herself from snatching her hand away as he bent down to kiss it.

As he straightened up again, Mary painted the smile back on her face. The moment had come. Later, she would consummate this marriage, and she tried not to dwell on it. Lie back and think of England, she told herself. It was the best she could do to get through this ordeal.

* * *

It was late the following day that Harry woke up, and even then it was only because someone was hammering on their door. The latch was shut, and Harry cursed under his breath as he extricated himself from Aislin, who slept on, even through the hammering. Instead of waking her, he rolled over and grabbed his breeches and his shirt to make himself decent. Out of the small window, he could see the day was almost over, they had lingered far longer than they were meant to.

Once he was dressed, he stepped over Aislin's sleeping body and opened the door to be greeted by the sight of two halberds pointed directly at his face. Instinctive he took a backwards step, but ended up tripping over Aislin who awoke with a start. It took her a moment to realise what was happening, and who the men at the door were.

"Gentlemen, can you give my wife a moment to make herself decent?" Harry asked, once he'd steadied himself. "I am sure we can sort this misunderstanding out in five minutes as well as we can now."

One of the two guards nodded to the other. "It's not like they're going anywhere, is it?" he reassured his colleague.

They stepped away, and Harry slammed the door closed before rushing over to Aislin. "Stick to the story and we'll be all right."

She was panicking, though. "How?" she asked, her eyes wide and wild. "How did they know?"

"The Monk must have blabbed to the local officer of peace," he explained. "But look, they don't know anything yet. Get your dress on while I sort this out. Be calm, and we can do this."

Aislin was no calmer, but she managed to get up and start getting herself dressed. Meanwhile, Harry stepped outside again, a story straight in his head. "Well, Gentlemen, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

The two men exchanged a glance, before the elder of them turned his attention exclusively to Harry. "Sir Henry Courtenay, Marquis of Exeter, you're under arrest. You're to be taken to the Tower of London in accordance with the wishes of her majesty the Queen Dowager, Catherine of Aragon. Bring the girl with you."

They were Catherine's men, and not Margaret's. It was a small ray of hope; just enough to cling to. But there was no point in pretending that he hadn't been caught out, and the lies died on his lips. Instead, he shrugged in defeat. "Look, this is all my fault, not the girl's," he said, "go easy on her, please."

The two others nodded in admission of his honest confession. It was something. Harry disappeared back into the hut to get Aislin, hoping she could hold it together for both their sakes.


	12. Whipping Boys

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your input means a lot, so thank you! The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Thanks again for reading, and please read and review. Also, as this is definitely my last update before the festivities: I want to wish all my readers a merry Christmas, and a happy New Year.

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**Chapter Twelve: Whipping Boys.**

Margaret was late. She ran her index finger down the list of dates in the book open on her desk top. Five weeks late, she concluded as she totted up the total in her head. A thrill of anticipation made her shiver as she snapped the diary closed and turned to face her husband, the Earl of Douglas. He was standing by the fireplace in their privy apartments deep inside the labyrinthine palace of Linlithgow, chewing on his fingernail – a nervous habit ill-becoming in any man.

He noticed Margaret looking at him. "Well?"

Margaret smiled. "Fetch the Physician, my love," she instructed him, "I think I may be with child."

Immediately he stopped biting his nails and closed the small gap between them in one step; sweeping her into an embrace. Married for barely two months, and he'd proved himself as a man already. He needed an heir as much as any King, and he knew a baby would solve his problems. A baby with the Queen Dowager, and he would be unassailable. She could never leave him now. "I love you," he whispered in her ear, "nothing can stop us now."

Margaret wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. Married two months, and most of that time spent fighting. A baby would heal the chasm that yawned between them. As she heard him whisper in her ear, a safety folded over her; a feeling she had not felt since the Counsel took her son, the King of Scots, away from her. She swallowed down on the knot of emotion that formed a lump in her throat and disentangled herself from him. His clear blue eyes bored into her own, searching her. "I'll give you a son," she promised him with a smile – her woes forgotten already. "I'll make you happy as you make me." Who needs the French? She thought wryly to herself.

* * *

A shameless rain tipped from the leaden London skies, soaking Queen and Commoner; Lord, Lady and Peasant alike, as the unmarked barge swayed down the Thames. Sensing a new tension in Queen Catherine's demeanour, Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, withdrew his hand from her arm and stood to one side so that she could walk forwards to the wharf where the barge now docked. He followed her, though, a respectful full pace behind her. He had the foresight to quietly instruct his daughter, Elizabeth Stafford, to assist the Queen in hitching her skirts clear of the rain churned mud that lined the embankment they were lined up on. When he looked back at Catherine, he saw that her jaw was set, her gaze impassive and unruffled as the new prisoners were led ashore. Behind them, the Tower of London beckoned.

Harry Courtenay was brought out first. It had been a rough, two month journey through the winter landscape, to bring him and his exile friend back home to London. A journey that had taken its toll. He was thinner than before, his clothes torn and frayed and he looked none of the Marquis he was. He shrank further, quailing beneath the Queen's furrowed glare like a child caught with his grubby hands in the sugar bowl. He bowed low, and once down he stayed down until the Queen thrust out her hand for him to kiss. He did so, and Catherine's lip curled in distaste as Harry's dirty face came within kissing distance of her porcelain skin.

She gave a small sigh. "Rise," she commanded, giving her recently kissed hand an imperious upwards flick.

Harry, already a sorry state in wet, ragged clothes and a hang dog expression, looked even more chastened at the complete lack of any understanding from his Sovereign. Edward sensed what was coming next, and tried to motion to the boy to keep his silence. Harry hesitated, but then cast caution to the wind and ploughed on as Catherine turned to walk away. "Your Majesty, please-"

"Not now, my lord of Exeter!" Catherine snapped back at him from over her shoulder.

Harry looked foundered, and only perked up when Aislin appeared at his side, being held up by one of the boatmen who'd had to carry her ashore. Edward noticed that her eyes were half-closed and her breaths came in short rasps from a rattling chest. The Queen had not even looked at her, and no one else had deigned to remark on the girl's pitiable condition, either. Edward jumped a small puddle to catch up with the Queen as she led the way into the Tower.

"Your Majesty," he said, getting her attention. "The girl needs medical help," he added as soon as she looked at him.

Catherine paused on the steps that led up the side entrance – a mercy for them not to be going through Traitor's Gate. She glanced at the girl, still leaning on the boatman, and to Edward's relief her expression softened. Without further hesitation, Edward shrugged off his cloak and descended the few steps to where Aislin was being half-carried up the stone steps, and wrapped it gently around her shoulders. The weight of it made her sag, but her eyelids fluttered open and a half-smile formed on her lips. "Thank you, Your Grace," she murmured weakly, a sentiment echoed by a shamed Harry Courtenay.

Edward nodded in response, but said nothing as he rejoined the Queen at the doorway. "We will talk in the Queen's Apartments, but the girl may rest privately. This is not her fault," said Catherine as the Constable now joined them and led the way.

"That was so kind of you, Ned," said Catherine as they reached their destination.

Edward blushed, making Catherine laugh. "It was nothing," he mumbled, "poor girl looks half dead."

"So modest!" she gasped, and gave him a nudge as they made their way indoors.

Inside, the King was playing with Elizabeth Howard and Maria De Salinas. He was on his feet, now, and when Catherine walked into chambers, he jumped right up and called out to her in his shrill voice. His vocabulary was growing, too, and a helpful Courtier had taught him his first cuss word. But, the arrival of the delegation meant the end of his fun, and Maria scooped him up and retreated on one of the ante-chambers that lay beyond the main hall of the Queen's Apartments.

Just as Elizabeth Howard was about to vanish down the connecting gallery, however, Catherine reached out to stop her. "Take the girl, Aislin, and see that she is taken care of. Let her rest."

Elizabeth did as she was bid, taking the strain of the girl, she led her out of the way still wrapped up in the Duke's cloak. Once she was gone, however, it was time for the serious business. Edward, Elizabeth Stafford, the Constable and Thomas Wolsey, who had also joined them in the Tower, lined up along the back wall to give Catherine free reign to administer the Royal tongue lashing that Harry Courtenay was bracing himself for from the moment the barge rolled through the London waters. He didn't dare raise his eyes to meet hers, and kept his gaze on his battered old boots.

"You, Sir, have brought shame on our whole country," said Catherine, her voice cutting through the tense silence that had settled over the chamber the moment Aislin had been led away. "First of all, you fail to talk sense into your cousin, Queen Margaret. You failed to get a single piece of useful information to use about what the Scots plans are for their new English policy, and you singularly failed to bring about any form of useful negotiation with the Counsel of King James. Did you even manage to talk to a single one of the King's Counsellors?"

Catherine ceased her slow pacing and glared at him. Harry blanched; swayed as he realised that he really did have to answer that question. "No," he replied, opting for the truth. "But, I-"

"If I want your excuses I'll damn well ask for them!" Catherine retorted furiously, her fist clenched into a tight, white, ball; as though she were about to strike the hapless creature shivering in front of her. "Not only were you an abysmal failure, my lord, you abandoned your post without permission, and under circumstances that could easily have led England and Scotland into yet another war!"

Harry looked as if he were about to vomit, but none of the others in the room dared to intercede with the Queen on his behalf. In the silence that followed her latest outburst, the men all shrank back into the shadows, their lack of envy for Courtenay radiating from them. Even the Duke of Buckingham let her get on with it. Wolsey, the man who put Harry's name forward to the embassy, buried his face in his hands in reflected shame.

"We didn't mean to kill anyone," said Harry, his voice trembling, weak with fear now.

Silence. A silence that crackled and swelled as all suddenly intensified their attention, directly onto him. Even Catherine's expression suddenly froze; dumbfounded. "Kill?" she repeated.

"I killed Angus," he replied, silently praying that no one knew it was really Aislin who dealt the killing blow. He would do anything to spare her life.

A collective sigh of relief rushed through every occupant of the room, and the Constable even had to stifle a laugh. But the Queen wasn't laughing. She cuffed Harry sharply about the back of his head. "Angus isn't dead, you fool!" she hissed, dangerously low, at him. "You knocked him out and ran off like a thief in the night. If you'd been brave enough to stay and face the consequences of your foolish actions I could have helped you and spared my nation this humiliation you have heaped upon us. But no, you ran like a coward, and for that you must be punished."

If Harry was crestfallen before, he was positively defeated now. He almost fell back in a dead faint but for the fact that the bitter cold was keeping him weighted firmly to consciousness. He looked up helplessly at the Queen, silently pleading with her for just a trace of mercy. To do the wrong thing for the right reasons, was bad enough for him. But to then discover that the right reason was not quite what he thought it to be exposed a raw shame. But he didn't dare speak up for himself in real words. He just watched as Catherine gave a half-hearted gesture towards the Constable. "Take him to the cells," she commanded, "if he's lucky he'll only be whipped through the streets of London like a common thief."

Harry suddenly got a hold of his wits and was about to protest vehemently, but the appearance of two burly guards cut that hope away from him. Besides, Catherine was already out of the door, leaving nothing but a scent of heavy musk on the air as she went; the men and ladies trailing after her.

* * *

Her dancing pleased the King. More than once, he tried to join in, but soon retired to his throne up on the dais. Then, Charles Brandon had to step in and take the old King's place at her side. It was only proper that a gentleman of her own Country should oblige. Dancing was all Mary could do to please her new husband, because he was simply too exhausted for anything else. She watched Louis closely. A more kindly man she never did meet. He showered her with gifts and houses in the French countryside. He commissioned miniature portraits so her likeness could be near to him during the long, tedious, counsel meetings. He showed her off to everyone, in her exquisite gowns and trailing ropes of jewels. But Mary saw the charade. Each glittering jewel he presented to her was a material apology. An apology for being far too old for her; a desperate attempt to give her a reason to love him all the same. It saddened her more than she ever thought it would. She flexed her perfect French every evening, when it was she who had to go to his bedchamber to bid him a good night. He would tell her stories of his youth; stories left half-told as he failed to stop his eye lids from drooping closed as sleep claimed him after another long day. Francis, she noticed, seemed to be hovering closer and closer, inching in by the second with his plump little wife at his side. The King and Queen of France in waiting. She wanted to scold them soundly for not even bothering to wait until her poor husband had passed away before staking their claim.

It was as she returned from King Louis's bedchamber, a month after her marriage, that she found Charles Brandon waiting for her in the Presence Chamber. He was dressed in his riding cloak and boots, standing with his back to her as she entered, gazing into the flames of the fire.

"Sir," she addressed him, stepping to the dais. "You wish to speak with me."

Her ladies, Anne and Mary Boleyn, were already there, drinks ready and a small plate of comfits. Charles turned to face the three of them, and he looked up at Queen Mary with a small, sad smile on his face. "Your Grace," he bowed low, only rising when she bid him do so. "I have come to take my leave of you."

Mary's heart jolted painfully in her chest; she almost dropped the goblet of wine Mary had pressed into her hand. "You're leaving?" she asked, eyes widening.

Charles gave a shrug. "My work here is done," he explained. "The Queen will be waiting for my reports." He sounded almost apologetic that the sum of Mary's marriage was a report to the Queen of England.

But if Mary was offended, it didn't show. She held Charles' gaze, and dismissively waved him away. He bowed once more, and took three small backwards steps, never turning his back on an anointed Queen, but showing none of the jovial familiarity that had once existed between them. Mary noticed, the further away Charles got, more the she yearned to keep him closer. By the time her Usher closed the doors on him, her eyes swam with tears unshed.

Behind her, Anne and Mary Boleyn exchanged a glance. Mary, the gentler of the two sisters stepped forwards and knelt down at Queen Mary's feet. "Your Grace," she spoke softly, "Anne and I were thinking."

The Queen admired the way these two seemed to read each others thoughts. She herself had a sister like that, once. Margaret, who seemed to have let herself become corrupted in Scotland. Mary could never make a fool of herself the way that Margaret had. She looked down at Mary Boleyn: "go on," she bid.

Mary Boleyn cast a quick glance over her shoulder. "It might be prudent to insist that Sir Charles remains, Your Grace," she said, keeping her voice low.

The Queen, however reluctantly she called herself that, dabbed at her eyes with a silk handkerchief. "Why ever say such a thing, Mistress Boleyn?" She had the feeling she was being led down the path of false hope.

Now, it was Mistress Anne's turn. Queen Mary noticed that Mary Boleyn was sent in to be gentle, but when the serious business began, it was Anne who took center stage. Anne handed her a new goblet of wine, as though for alcoholic fortification. "The King is dying, Your Grace," Anne explained, her tone matter-of-fact and brooking no contradiction. "His Physicians speak of it openly now, and so does Francis. And that is not all Francis talks about."

Mary had to concede that Anne was only speaking the truth, but she had no idea of the things that Francis spoke of when she wasn't within earshot of his borderline treason. "What has he been saying?" she asked, nervous now.

"As far as Francis is concerned, you're a French subject, and you will be his to command once Louis is dead," she explained, "your future will be in his hands, and not Queen Catherine's."

Queen Mary's eyes widened, the pit of her belly flipped uncomfortably. "You mean, he won't let me return home?" she asked, horrified.

Anne shook her head, a lock of raven dark hair slipping from beneath her French Hood. "He might do, or he might not. The ball is in his Court, but if you have an Ambassador from the English Court at your side you may still be able to free yourself of him."

"What about your father?" asked the Queen.

Anne and Mary exchanged another dark glance, one that the Queen did not like the look of and made her even more fearful. Again, it was Anne who spoke, commandeering these matters away from her sister. "Our father is completely loyal to Queen Catherine," she explained, "but that is as far as it goes. If it suits him to back Francis, then he will work with Catherine on Francis' behalf. Charles, however, will fight your corner alone. Charles is a more straightforward man than our father." The Queen could see she was speaking diplomatically of a father she loved, despite his slippery nature.

Mary Boleyn blushed and stifled a laugh. "We've seen the way Charles looks at Your Maj-" she was cut short by a discreet elbow to the ribs from Anne.

"Recall Charles Brandon," Anne repeated, "if needs be, my sister and I will waylay him now."

Numb, and her mind whirling in the new web of intrigue she had found herself in, Queen Mary gave a small nod of her head. "Go," she weakly agreed. She wanted Charles close just a few minutes ago, and now she didn't know what to do. For all she knew, Louis could die tonight, and less than one month would pass and Francis would be trying to marry her off again to some ancient and unknown noble. The thought of it made her sick.

* * *

Edward Stafford watched the toddling King meander across the Privy Chamber floor. More than once he took a tumble, one so great it almost constituted a full forward roll. But each time, after barely more than a whimper, he was back up again and careering around. He stifled a laugh, and nestled his head in Queen Catherine's lap. Looking up at her, he could see her gaze was distant, like she was only there in body while her mind drifted downstream. He reached out his right hand, and cupped her left cheek. She seemed to come around with a small jolt. But the sadness in her eyes was still there, still painfully obvious.

"Darling," he said. Now that they were alone, they could be familiar. "What ails you? The fact that you're planning on having one of your most loyal, noble servants whipped through the streets of London on the morrow?" He didn't mean to sound waspish, but he could see that Catherine was tormented, and it could only be Harry Courtenay that was the root of her troubles. "You should bear in mind that he is the grandson of Edward IV; the people, or rather certain people, may not appreciate a son of York being subjected to such a public humiliation by a Lancastrian Queen."

Her face darkened into a frown. "I only said that to frighten the idiot," she replied, as though that should have been obvious. "He deserves that much after what he did. And, may I remind you, I am a Queen of England, not a Queen of Lancaster. I have never heard of such a thing." She knew full well what he meant, but she would brook no ancient rivalries in her Court.

Edward pulled himself upright. "Well, that at least is a profound relief. But Harry's spent the last few months believing himself to be a murderer," exasperation laced his tone, "is that not punishment enough?"

Catherine looked back at him with a smile on her face, a real one this time. "But he didn't think he was a murderer," she answered.

Edward frowned. "You heard him, he said he killed the earl of Angus."

"The girl, Aislin, was overwhelmed with guilt and spilled the full story to Lady Elizabeth Howard," Catherine explained. "It was the girl who dealt the blow to Angus to stop him from killing Harry after some terrible confusion on the earl's part. But I did not know this until it was too late."

A number of expressions chased themselves across Edward Stafford's face, and they all looked painful. "So, basically, he took the blame for her?"

Catherine nodded. "I can't decide whether that makes Harry Courtenay an even sweeter fool, or an even bigger idiot for bringing such trouble upon us. What say you?"

Edward contemplated this, and replied with words selected very carefully. "I think that I would do the same for you," he paused, thinking it through again. "But knowing you would think me either a fool or an idiot for doing so could be rather off-putting. But no, I would gladly lay down my life for you; as a woman, and as my Queen. Because I love you; as Harry loves Aislin to take a humiliating punishment for her, and she loves him enough to protect him from it."

Catherine sighed. "You're lecturing me-"

"No," Edward interjected, "I am speaking honestly with you. I think you should pardon them both and to the devil in hell with the Scots."

Catherine let her head fall back against the couch they were entwined on, and breathed deeply as though soothing herself through a storm. "I did not mean to be callous, Ned," she said resignedly. "I did not meant to be hard on Harry, and certainly not the girl. But I fear the Scots, Ned. I fear what they could do, and I am ashamed of myself for letting such an inexperienced Ambassador, like Harry, go there at all. It should have been left to someone far more capable. Someone like -" she broke off suddenly. "Someone like you," she eventually added.

"Why didn't you send me?" he asked, glancing down at his feet.

"Because I wanted you here."

Despite it all, Edward smiled. "I wouldn't have left you, anyway."

Their gaze met; they simply looked at one another. "Let's stop this messing about," he said, "let's get married."

It was the least romantic proposal Catherine had ever received, even the one that came via an Ambassador when she was just a child. But it was the one she most agreed with. "Yes," she replied, her mood beginning to take flight. "Yes; let's get married."


	13. An Unhappy Widow

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone that has read and reviewed this story, your input means a lot, so thank you! The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this (Besides my two fictional characters: Aislin and Henry IX). Please read and review, thank you.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen: An Unhappy Widow.**

Aislin stirred; a soft moan escaping her lips as she rolled and stretched herself back into consciousness, but her eyes remained stubbornly closed. Harry smiled down at her from where he sat at her bedside. Carefully, he pressed down the quilts to expose the lower half of her face. Her lips were soft and warm as he brushed the gentlest of kisses against her mouth. As though the kiss broke a spell, her eyelids fluttered open and the final vestiges of sleep were cast off. They looked at each other for a long moment, him admiring her dark, tousled, hair as it fanned out against the pillow, her amethyst eyes bleary in the morning sun that filled the Queen's Tower apartments.

"Good morning, sweetheart," he whispered.

She smiled, reached out and circled her arms around his neck, pulling him in for another kiss. He offered no resistance. For a week she had lain infirm, drifting in and out of consciousness. He had thought that he would lose her. The Physicians bled her, the Chaplain prayed endlessly for her, and he had hovered in the doorway of his cell until the early hours for just one word of her condition, despite the Queen having already informed he was free to leave. Together, they had made the dangerous journey from Scotland, braving outlaws, cut-throats, and the Earl of Angus' private army. They were damned if they thought that he would abandon Aislin now, when her life seemed to be hovering on a delicate thread.

When they parted, he studied her closely. There were still dark circles around her eyes, and her skin was sallow and jaundiced. She was thinner than ever before, but her fever had broken and she was fully awake now. "I thought that I would lose you," he said, "I didn't know what to do with myself."

"Harry," she said his name, her voice hoarse from lack of use.

He pressed a finger to her lip, shushing her and kissing her again when he withdrew it. "Do not speak," he said, pulling away again, "you've been so ill; everyone was worried."

A breakfast tray had been left by the door and Harry set about preparing what was there for her. "You must eat," he said, clucking like an old mother hen. "There's manchet bread, butter and fresh honey. Eat as much as you can, I need you to be strong again." He turned his back on her so that she couldn't see what he was doing, and giving her the chance to sit up properly in the bed. While she was distracted, he tugged a small gold ring out of his pocket – it was one her normally wore on a chain around his neck – and placed it on the tray, next to the bread. In place, he set the tray down on her lap.

"There," he said, grinning, "get your strength back."

"Thank you," she said, returning the smile with her eyes fixed on him. She didn't look down as she lifted the bread to her mouth, she was too busy looking at him, studying him. "Have you anything in mind, Harry? You seem keen for me to get my strength back, and I can barely think why," she added with a wink. They were both thinking of the night they shared together, the night before their arrest.

"Look down," he said, "it's there, on the tray."

Her eyes dropped to the tray, and straight to the ring, and almost choked on the pinch of bread she had just popped into her mouth. He laughed, patted her back, and almost missed the tears that welled up in her eyes. "Is this what I think it is?" she asked once she had regained her composure.

He blushed. "I want you to marry me," he said, as though it were some sort of confession, "I want you to be my wife, and never be gone from my side again."

The words barely left his lips before the tears of happiness spilled down her cheeks. She pushed the tray aside and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly as she sobbed into his shoulder. He returned her embrace, breathing in her rich scent and holding her so close he thought they would simply mould into each other.

"Is that a yes, then?" he asked between peals of relieved laughter.

Aislin, too, burst out laughing. "Yes!" she gasped, her voice muffled. "Yes, yes, yes!"

* * *

"May I be the first to offer my congratulations, Your Grace."

It was Thomas Wolsey, Bishop of York. He was hovering in the doorway of the Queen's Chambers, beaming broadly with his arms outstretched to the room at large. Catherine got up from her place, where her ladies were already getting to work on the wedding garments, and crossed the room to embrace her old friend. "My Lord, thank you," she said, leading him inside.

Catherine signalled for the women to continue with their embroidery, given the volume they had to produce, it would be a ceaseless production line until the day itself. They would rest for no man, but Catherine still had state business to content with.

"I was expecting trouble from the rest of the regency counsel," she confessed as she led Wolsey down the Gallery to the Privy Counsel chamber. "Further, I feared I would be heading down the same route as my Sister, Queen Margaret. But everyone seems happy!"

Wolsey looked politely perplexed. "Why would they?" he asked. "You waited more than long enough – King Henry has been dead for almost four years. Buckingham is a Duke, one of the wealthiest in the land and the most powerful. If not him, then who?"

The question didn't need answering. Finding a match suitable for a Dowager Queen was nigh impossible. They had struck gold with Buckingham, so long as he refrained from interfering with rule of his new step-son.

As though anticipating his thoughts, Catherine set out to sooth the only worries the Counsel did express. "I will not let him get above himself," she said, "you can trust me on that, my lord. He has his lands and titles, and wants for no more. We both just need each other, and my son needs a father."

"Of course," Wolsey replied, seeking to reassure her. "But, I am afraid, you are not the only one who needs a new husband."

Catherine's expression darkened as a frown furrowed her brow. "Really?" she asked, easing the door to the counsel chamber open. "Do you mean Mary?"

Wolsey raised an affirmative eyebrow as he helped himself to a seat at Catherine's side. "My last messenger informed me that Louis had not woken for two days now," he explained. "That was yesterday, and I wouldn't be surprised if he was dead already."

So much for the French alliance, Catherine thought drearily to herself. "Well, he was never going to last forever, was he?" she said, "but a month!"

"Poor Mary," said Wolsey, with not much conviction.

Catherine shuddered at the memory of Mary's leaving, the arguments and insults they had thrown at each other over the issue of her marriage to the old King of France. Then, a memory reared up at the back of her mind, making her heart tug painfully. "I remember when Arthur died," she said, suddenly reminiscing. "I know Arthur was a young man, and we were only married for a few short months. But people acted to me like he never existed. I know it was short, but it still hurt; I still grieved for him, and all that we could have been."

Wolsey's sapphire blue eyes grew dull at the memory, it seemed to them both a lifetime ago. "God rest his soul," he murmured, "I will see to it that instructions are sent to France, Mary should be treated with utmost dignity and respect at this difficult time."

"She must be left in peace, in her home at the Palace," Catherine added. "Make sure Francis doesn't throw her out on the streets."

Wolsey heaved a dry laugh. "I don't think there's much danger of that!" he said, "but we will not recall her straight away, she will be left to mourn there for as long as she needs."

It was all very sad, but Catherine was powerless to act against death. "Thank you, Thomas," she replied, resorting to the more familiar first name. "Have you heard about Margaret? She is expecting Angus's baby."

Wolsey rolled his eyes. "It is still the scandal of all Scotland."

Catherine didn't have time to engage in idle gossip, though. "Do you think there is no way back for her on King James' Regency Counsel?" she asked, getting straight to the point. "If she wants to be foolish, let her. But this could have consequences for us."

"Margaret was a prodigiously intelligent girl," Wolsey mused, propping his head on his hand – a strangely defeatist gesture in him. "It's like this man has cast a spell on her; bewitched her or swapped her over for some night-tripping demoness who's taken on the appearance of the Princess I once knew. She has burned her bridges, and she will be lucky if she ever sees her son again; never mind getting control of his regency counsel again."

Catherine fell silent and seemed to be studying her lap, deep in thought. Eventually, she said: "The earl of Angus is only married to her because he seeks to control the King – his new stepson. He, as an Earl, is entitled to a place at Court. Now that the Counsel has spurned Margaret, she remains at Court only as the earl's wife?"

Wolsey picked up on the path that Catherine was leading him down. "Meaning, when he realises that she simply cannot get access to the King as easily as he though, he may well cast her off, and she will have nowhere to go and no one to protect her."

Catherine sighed deeply. "Was she really an intelligent girl?"

A bemused smile spread across Wolsey's face. "Believe me, a few years ago I would never have believed this of her."

"She will come running to us for help," said Catherine, flatly, not relishing her sister-in-laws inevitable doom. "It will grieve her, as I believe she still holds me responsible for the death of her first husband. But what choice will she have? Mary is no longer Queen of France – or won't be for much longer – so she cannot go there. The rest of her siblings are dead. There is only me."

"If we make another dynastic match for Mary, then perhaps that will be Margaret's future sanctuary?"

Catherine shrugged. "Perhaps," she said. "but please, let me concentrate on my own wedding. At least this gives us a reason to be happy."

"Gladly!" retorted Wolsey with a sigh of relief, and produced the first plans for King Henry IX's early education – the real reason he needed to speak with Catherine.

Catherine thumbed through it all eagerly, but her mind was still on weddings and betrothals. Her own; Mary's, and now Margaret's ill-judged affairs. But, she conceded as she ran through the list of Scholars for Henry, it was for the future. For now, the future would have to wait.

* * *

The tolling of the bells resonated mournfully across the whole of France; ringing out the news of the death of King Louis. Mary knew it before the messenger arrived to break the news gently; she had even garbed herself in black in preparation. Anne and Mary Boleyn were putting the finishing touches to her widow's reeds when the breathless servant appeared.

"The King is dead," he puffed between breaths, oblivious to the dressings of mourning.

"Yes, we know," said Anne Boleyn as she turned to face the man. "Now, if you excuse us, the Queen is in mourning."

Queen Mary had to admire the girl's straightforwardness. Anne Boleyn was barely fifteen summers, and already she was a no-nonsense politician. The poor messenger blushed deeply; his gaze darting about the room as he became painfully aware of his intrusion. "Forgive me," he said, and backed away in a hurry.

"Thank you, Lady Anne," said Mary, turning to face her. Anne wasn't what she would call beautiful, but she supposed she may make a man happy, one day.

Anne smiled graciously, and that sparked some beauty in her dark eyes. What she had, she knew how to use. "Anything, your majesty, I will do for you."

"I can't feel grief," Mary shocked herself by her own honesty, but she had come to trust her women since they talked her out of letting Brandon go. They made no reply; no judgement, they let her carry on. "I wish I could, and I almost hate myself for it, but I just can't grieve for the King – even if he was my husband."

She fell silent, only the tolling of the bells of Notre Dame could be heard above the rustle of fabric as the women moved around each other. Mary's two months of mourning had begun as they meant to go on, or so it seemed to her. After a few minutes, a loud knock came upon the door, startling them all. All three women looked at each other, a silent understanding passing between them. Charles. It had to be.

"Answer it," the widowed Queen nodded to Lady Anne.

She was gone into the outer-chambers in a whirl of stiff linen skirts. Seconds later, however, voices were raised, shouting in French. Francis, the new King, barged in with Lady Anne desperately doing what she could to stop him. His cold grey eyes were fixed on Mary.

"Out!" he commanded to Lady Mary, "take your sister with you."

Anne had done all she could, and Mary wouldn't dare to gainsay a King; they had no choice. "Sir, I would prefer my ladies stayed-"

"This is private," he cut Mary off as she tried to defend her women.

Her status, so newly downgraded, rendered her protestations useless. Anne and Mary retreated, and the chamber once again fell into silence. It felt, to Mary, like an ornate prison cell, and her gaoler was about to cut up rough.

Without preamble, he said: "Marry me."

Mary choked, her eyes widened in shock; her jaw hit her chest. "Queen Claude!" she gasped, standing at full height, ready to fend him off if need be.

Francis shook his head. "I do not love her," he said, "she is dying, and she has already given me a son."

Mary was flabbergasted, and no longer cared who she was talking to. "My Lord," she began, an attempt at keeping the conversation civil, "you no longer love your wife, so she is conveniently dying? She has given you a son, so she has served her purpose, more like!" She looked at him, with his lantern jaw, and his wide set nostrils flaring worse than a Shire horse, and wanted to kick him. But before she could further entertain such notions further, he had her by the shoulders and gave her a good shake.

"Don't you understand what I am saying to you," he spoke slowly, carefully accentuating each word like she was some kind of simpleton, "I am offering you a second chance at being Queen."

The shock knocked the resistance clean out of her, and Mary fell limp in his hands as her mind swirled with what she was hearing. "Can't you see I am in mourning for your dear father-"

"Oh don't you give me that, madam, he was ugly and old, and well you know it."

Finally, Mary snapped back into her senses and put up a real fight. She pushed him away so hard he staggered backwards and fell against the far wall, knocking an ornamental vase over in the process. Without wasting any more time, Mary hitched her skirts up and ran for her life. Outside, Anne and Mary Boleyn, having heard the smashing vase, were racing back towards here. To her intense relief, Charles Brandon was just a second behind them. Mary launched herself into his arms, dissolving into tears of uncontrollable anger and bitterness. All he could do was steady her as they slowly made their to one of the many private chambers that lined the Palace galleries.

"In here, sir," Lady Mary held open a door that led into what looked like a storeroom for state robes.

Nevertheless, Charles steered Mary inside, and instructed the girls to keep watch for Francis.

"Tell me what happened," he said, lowering Mary onto a stack of fluer d'lys embossed velvets.

Mary looked up at him towering over her, and succumbed to a fresh wave of tears that choked any attempts at a coherent explanation. All Charles could do was sit down beside Mary, and hold her tight, cradling her in his arms. Gently, he shushed her, stroking her hair and caressing the back of her neck. Soon, the tension began to gradually melt away but Mary remained, lying helplessly limp in his arms with her cheek resting against his broad chest, listening to steady beat of his heart.

"Never leave me," she finally whispered in a voice cracked with emotion.

He tightened his grip, his arms wrapped around her shoulders. "Never," he replied.

* * *

It was good to be free, again. Harry Courtenay had a definite spring in his step as he bounded through the Palace of Westminster. The Queen was in residence, making plans for her wedding to the Duke of Buckingham, and the Courtiers were jubilant. Aislin was well on the road to recovery, and they were destined to be together. The world was good again, and he finally had the space to thank his lucky stars that he was home safe and sound. It was the first day of the rest of his life, with the woman he loved – who he would gladly lay down his life for.

The usual gaggle of hangers-on, petitioners and fortune seekers were milling about in Catherine's outer-chambers. The chatter was buzzing, gossip ablaze about the Queen and her future husband. Harry dodged them all gracefully as he made his way towards the Chamberlain. To his relief, he was admitted to Catherine's presence chamber without delay – his rank seeing him home so swiftly.

"Her Majesty has been waiting for you, my lord of Exeter," the man informed him as he went to fetch Catherine.

That was a promising sign. Catherine must surely have realised that Aislin was his intended, and been expecting this audience since his pardon came through. When Catherine did appear, she had Buckingham at her side, and a broad smile lighting up her face. As soon as her eyes alighted on him, her arms opened wide to embrace him, stopping his bow.

"No need, Harry," she said, sweeping him into a hug, and then letting him go again. She turned to her ladies, Elizabeth Stafford and Elizabeth Howard, and ordered the refreshments. "Come and sit with us; tell us all your news," she added, turning back to him. "I pray you forgive our last meeting."

Harry took the seat opposite the couch which Catherine and Edward Stafford took for themselves. It was, to his relief, shaping up to be an informal reintroduction to Court life. "I understand why you did it, Your Majesty; I failed you and deserved to be punished," he admitted, gazing briefly downwards; a gesture of humility. "I wish to make it up to you-"

Catherine waved her hand. "No more," she said, "all is forgiven, I assure you."

Harry looked back up at her. She was genuinely happy. "May I offer my congratulations to you both," he said, "I only heard the news a few days past, and it gladdens me greatly to see you both so well suited and happy."

Catherine's smile brightened, and the women placed the drinks in front of them. Once they were back at their stations in the nearby antechamber, Catherine leaned forwards and planted a kiss on his cheek. "Thank you, Cousin."

The moment had come. Harry steeled himself. "Your Grace, I also have news of marriage," he began, "and I came to ask for your permission so that, too, may marry?" As soon as he had said it, his mouth ran dry and his stomach clenched painfully with nerves. He hoped that Catherine would be delighted, but instead, her smile died and she looked decidedly concerned.

"To who?"

"To Aislin," he replied, silently praying that this hesitancy was just for show.

For a long moment, a silence swelled between them. "The Earl of Kildare's daughter?" asked Catherine.

Harry nodded. "That is her."

From the corner of his eye, he could see the Duke reclining back in his seat as though trying to distance himself from the conversation. But Catherine remained resolutely in place.

"She is betrothed to the Earl of Lennox, Harry," she explained, her tone kindly as though to speak normally would shatter him. "And I simply cannot order her father to break that union to accommodate you. I am sorry, Exeter. There is little I can do beside write to her father and seek his opinion on the matter."

Edward cleared his throat, signalling his return to the conversation. "It will be complicated to break that betrothal, no matter what happened between them before she fled Scotland with you. Her quarrel was with Angus, not Lennox – so there is no reason to presume that there will be bad blood between them. Legally, our hands are tied."

Harry could scarcely believe what he was hearing. "But Lennox and Angus are allies! He will have her arrested and thrown in jail if she were to return to him, now!"

Catherine looked at him, full of pity now. It maddened him to see that expression in her eyes directed at him, even if he had to tread very carefully. But if Aislin was worth dying for, she was also worth begging for. "Please, your grace, we're in love; we cannot bear to be separated like this."

He noticed that Catherine could now barely bring herself to look at him. She tugged at the bracelets around her wrists, or smoothed her skirts to distract herself from the discomfort of the audience. Even Buckingham was looking anywhere except in his direction. But it was Edward who spoke again. "I spoke up for you, Harry, and I can see how much you love the girl," he sympathised, "but this is much more complicated than even I realised."

Harry swallowed at the lump that had formed in his throat. "I thank you for that, Your Grace," he replied shakily, "but is there no grounds for asylum?"

"Harry, look at me," Catherine said, and reached across the small space between them to clasp his hand. "There is something else: if my son, King Henry IX dies, you will more than likely be the next King."

It was something known, but never spoken of, that Harry Courtenay had a more than strong claim to the English Crown. So strong that it landed his father in the Tower for his own good; his mother, Catherine Plantagenet, retired to the country to keep out of harms way. Hearing Catherine speak of his claim so matter-of-factly silenced him, knocked him out of his love-lorn desperation. With King Henry still nought more than a baby, he, Harry, was set to remain as the unofficial next in line for quite some time.

"I have no ambitions for-" he began, but Catherine cut him off.

"You have no say; you are of the blood royal," she firmly pointed out, before gently adding: "and she is not."

For shame, he tried to stop the tears that welled up in his eyes. "This is a neutral match," he weakly argued, even though he realised it was now futile. Catherine wasn't just pointing out his dynastic importance, she was also threatening him with it. His future was hers to command, and hers alone. She tugged him to his feet, and led him away from the Duke so that they could speak privately and he could vent his emotion without the land's most powerful magnate looking at him, making him ashamed.

"Harry," she continued in her soft, sympathetic, voice. "You realise that if I go ahead and grant permission for you to marry the Earl of Kildare's daughter, I risk angering my Irish lords. They are volatile at the best of times. As well as that, she is already legally betrothed to the new Earl of Lennox, and that brings the added risk of angering the Scots. I am risking angering my son's enemies on two fronts, and that I cannot do."

All hope drained from him, and he began to feel foolish and naïve for ever believing that it could have happened at all. The complications had not occurred to him; simply hadn't entered his head and all he had done was build himself, as well as Aislin, up for a great fall. When he thought of the heartbreak it would cause her, Harry wanted to drown himself. "I'm sorry," he mumbled to himself, as though Aislin would hear it.

Catherine cupped his face in her hands, tilting his head up so they were looking at each other again. "I will do all I can," she promised him. "I will write to Lennox, and ask if he will release her from her betrothal, and I will write to Kildare to ask if he gives his permission for her to marry you. While this is happening, she may remain in England, in my household and under my supervision. You must not meet in secret, but you can meet under my supervision, or the supervision of Maria de Salinas. Just one transgression, and she is on the next boat back to Dublin. Do you accept?"

It was a lifeline, and Harry jumped on it eagerly. "Yes, Your Majesty,"he answered without hesitation. "I swear, I will not let you down, and thank you."

With the pad of her thumb, Catherine wiped away the single tear that had managed to leak from his eye. "I will give you written permission, under seal, to remain at the Tower while Lady Aislin recuperates. Your visits will be chaperoned. And one last thing, you know what relations between England and Ireland are like, so do not build up your hopes. If Kildare says no, then I will arrange a suitable match for you, and you must move on with it, and never see Aislin again."

Her predicament was real, not something she had invented just to thwart him for him badness. But it didn't make the pain any easier to deal with. He swiped his sleeve over his eyes before he could upset himself all over again. "Thank you, Your Grace," he managed to say as he lowered into a bow. All he wanted was to get out of the Presence Chamber, now, and Catherine nodded her dismissal to his great relief.

* * *

Once Harry was gone, Catherine turned to look at Edward Stafford who was still reclined on the couch. He shrugged. "Cruel to be kind," he said, "we've all had to do it at one point or another."

"Well that doesn't make me feel any better," Catherine replied as she gratefully lowered herself back down at his side. She let her head fall back against his shoulder, and groaned. "Please don't ever let me have to do that, ever again!"

Edward placed a protective arm around her shoulders, and kissed the top of her head. "It cannot be easy," he conceded, punctuating each word with a kiss. "But if you're worried about dynastic matches, Mary is a widow now. She will need a new husband."

"Mary!" Catherine gave a small, mirthless laugh. "I just want to get her safely home first. We did not part on good terms."

Catherine closed her eyes, and relished her proximity to her own husband. She was free to marry where her heart had led her, and now she appreciated that luxury all the more. "I love you, Ned," she said, drifting off into a light snooze. "Don't every forget that." The last thing she felt before drifting off were the lips of her lover as they grazed a kiss against her forehead.


	14. To Have and to Hold

**Author's Note:**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your input means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. I'm afraid it's another long chapter, and apologies for amount of wedding cake in this one.

Please read and review, thank you.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen: To Have and to Hold.**

Black velvet draped the black carriage, towed by six black horses, that was to bear the King of France's body to the Saint Denis Basilica. Mary had seen the Basilica on her way into Paris, but didn't think it as grand as Westminster. Not that it mattered, because she could only watch her husband's funeral from afar; protocol dictated that she couldn't even set foot in the building. Still, the weather respected the sombre occasion, and a fine rain drizzled from the skies as the process moved off through the streets draped in black bunting. Once the procession was out of sight, Mary turned around to face her ladies, and signalled their withdrawal. All of them were glad to be out of the rain, and away from the state imposed misery that permeated the very air.

Once they were back in the Queen Dowager's chambers, Mary turned straight to Anne Boleyn: "Have you seen Francis?" she asked, "has he left any messages."

"Nothing."

The Queen's relief was palpable. Turning to Mary Boleyn, she took her to one side. "Go and fetch Charles to me straight away."

She asked no questions; just bobbed a curtsey and walked briskly from the room with a keen sense of purpose. But Mary was still nervous, and took nothing for granted. If their plan was going to work, every eventuality had to be covered. "Anne," she said, touching the lady's elbow. "Go and order our horses to be saddled, and buy the stable boy's silence with these." She held out small stack of gold coins from her own purse, counting them out slowly.

Anne took the coins. "Be ready in one hour," she reminded Mary, "we have no margin for error."

Mary didn't need to be reminded of that. Louis had been dead for three weeks, and the Court was still in mourning. Today, they were all at the Basilica for the funeral, but Francis and Claude (like Mary herself) were barred from attending by royal protocol, which meant that there were still lurking about the Palace Galleries like spare parts. But, luckily for Mary, she was left to her own devices. She also knew, however, that didn't mean people were not making plans for her – and it was that which pushed her into the corner in which she found herself.

Once Anne had gone, Mary was alone, once again, with her fears. She would understand if Charles got cold feet; or if the consequences of his actions were just too great for him. She had fallen in love with him during their voyage to France, and had grown to love him more deeply since then. But this could be too much to ask of even the most ardent of lovers. To distract herself, she removed her black cloak and swapped it for a white, fur lined, cloak. Something that didn't betray her mourning to the Priest who was about to marry her to Charles. Anne and Mary were to act as witnesses, and their rings both came from their previous spouses. It was hardly tasteful, it was never going to be romantic, but it would save her from a fate worse than death.

"Are you ready?"

His voice startled her. She sprang up from the dresser she was sat in front of, and found herself face to face with Charles. His expression; his whole demeanour, was of determination. Her heart beat faster; finally, it was happening. "Yes," she replied, resolutely.

He smiled, and held his hand out to her. "We must hurry," he said, "Mary Boleyn is distracting Francis, so we can get away without any unwanted interruptions."

Mary's eyes widened in alarm. "She is our witness; we need her!"

"Don't worry, Anne will give the signal when we're away, and they both will follow without delay," he explained.

She took a deep, steadying breath. "Very well," she replied, still far from happy that they were not all travelling together, but forced another smile. "Now, lets go."

* * *

Maria De Salinas held up the mirror so Catherine could see the final result of over four hours of preparation that had gone into her wedding dress. The image reflected back at her took her breath away. Her gown was white satin and damask, edged with gold and silver thread; delicate lace work trimmed the fine silk cloak that was draped over her shoulders. Her hair was braided with silver thread that glittered in the spring sunshine. About her neck she wore a heavy chain of diamonds and rubies, showing off her slender throat. She had forgotten that she could even look like this.

"Lower the mirror before I start to cry!" she laughed, already welling up regardless.

Maria was beaming brightly. "You look beautiful, Catherine," she gushed, falling into easy conversation since they were alone together, "and I believe your carriage awaits."

The time had raced in unnoticed. "Already?"

Maria grinned. "Well, there is one more thing," she said, enigmatically. "Today, Henry is performing his first ever function as King."

Catherine watched Maria as she set the mirror down and began walking towards the Privy Chamber door. "What do you mean? What is he doing? Could it not wait until after the wedding?" The news was deeply upsetting to her. Henry performing his first ever state duty was akin to watching him taking his first steps, and the Counsel knew full well she would give her all to be there to watch him - even if it was just a ceremonial opening of the back door.

However, this seemed to be lost on Maria as she glanced back with the grin getting wider. She opened the door to reveal Henry, holding the hand of Sir Thomas More, dressed in a beautiful page boy's outfit and a tiny gold coronet on his head.

"What he's doing is giving his beloved mother away in marriage," Maria said, thoroughly enjoying the effect of the last minute surprise on the Queen Dowager.

Henry was the model of a King in miniature; he was a model of his father in miniature, and the sudden realisation made Catherine's heart ache. Cautiously, she lowered down to her haunches, and beckoned him forwards. He responded with a polite bow, before bounding over to her. "Mama!" he cried as he flung his small, spindly arms around her neck, decidedly unmindful of the preparation that had gone into her hair. But Catherine didn't mind.

Sir Thomas and Maria politely withdrew to the antechamber while mother and son shared a private moment away from their prying eyes. Once they had gone, she disentangled herself from her son's embrace, and held him at arms length. So much like his father. His hair was blond, but darkening with age, and those curls! But Catherine thought that would settle in time. His eyes were dark blue; they shone like sapphires, and his skin was pale as alabaster. It brought tears to her eyes, and Henry looked back at her quizzically. "Mama, you're crying," he stated, and reached into his breast pocket where someone had given him a handkerchief.

Catherine's heart melted with tenderness as she took it, and dabbed at her eyes. "Henry," she said, getting his full attention, "you know I love you very much, and that no one will ever replace you in my heart. You know that, don't you?"

Henry gave a vigorous nod, making the baby curls flop into his eyes. "And I love you very much, and no one will ever replace you in my heart," he replied, thoughtfully.

Catherine's tears were replaced with laughter. "That's not quite true, Henry," she said, "one day you will find a Lady who is as special to you as Edward is to me, and you will marry her, and make a home with her. You will have children, and only then will you understand how much I love you."

Henry's little nose wrinkled. "A girl?" he sounded repulsed. Catherine realised she had lost him as soon as she mentioned the fairer sex. He had only limited experience with them, seeing as he was not yet four, but he did have a nasty run-in the Cook's daughter, for which his Governess had punished him. It seemed that it had led to some animosity directed at the entire gender.

"You're too young, but one day you'll understand," she explained. "But listen, Edward is to be your step-father, and you must obey him as you would had he been your real father. I know you are King, but that does not exempt you from your duties as a son, or a step-son."

His expression turned serious in tune with the tone of her voice, and he suddenly stood up to his full height and bowed again. He did that when he wanted to be taken seriously. "I promise, Mama," he said, all solemn, and leaned up to kiss Catherine's cheek. "I'll be a good boy, always."

Of course you will; thought Catherine as she gathered him into a final hug. Then, it was time to leave for Westminster Abbey, where her husband was waiting to formalise their union.

* * *

The tolling of the Westminster bells startled them both. Harry and Aislin drew apart from their stolen kiss, shooting furtive looks out across the Tower Gardens. "You had best go," she said, but wringing his hand tighter as though she wanted him to stay.

"It's all right, it won't start for an hour at least and I can be there in ten minutes," he replied.

The truth was, he was in no hurry to get to the wedding, even if he did have an official role to play. Aislin was still looking in the direction of the Abbey, even if she could barely see it. "I did not know you were the next in line," she said.

"Would it have made a difference if you had?"

She gave a small shake of her head. "I love you all the same."

Harry raised a pained smile. "We don't talk about it," he informed her. "We're still sensitive about it, just ask your father. He spent half his life here for backing the wrong claimant."

Aislin shivered and huddled in closer to him as she recalled her father's stories about the Tower. It was the same unfortunate history between their two houses that had condemned their union. "He sees you as a Tudor," she explained, her expression as solemn as her tone. "He was never going to consent to us being together; we were naïve to think he would change his mind now."

The Earl of Kildare had received the Queen's letter, and already sent word back that under no circumstances would he countenance a match between his only daughter, and "a minion of the Tudor usurper." Harry let his head rest on her shoulder and closed as his eyes as the tolling of the bells continued, and let her kiss him again. God knew, it would probably be there last chance, and even that was being cut short. After a few more minutes, he stood up to leave.

"This is it, then," he said.

She shook her head. "Not quite: I'll be moving into Catherine's household before I am sent back to Scotland."

It was better then nothing, but it still meant he would only catch sight of her surrounded by other people, guarded like the crown jewels by the Queen herself. His emotions were flat as he kissed her goodbye for the final time. Before he left, however, he produced a small, hastily wrapped package from within his doublet.

"For you," he said, "I have one the same."

She took the small object, and unravelled the silk bindings. Inside was a seal ring depicting a quartered shield, decorated with both of their coats of arms. The sun in splendour and lion rampant for him; three monkeys straddling a helmet for her. It was a unique piece, and she admired the way the gold caught the sun. "It's beautiful," she said, "and ingenius."

Finally, he smiled. "If ever you need me, send me a note sealed with that: I'll know it's you, and you'll know it's me."

She lifted a chain from around her neck, and he helped her to unfasten it so the ring could be kept secure there. But once that was done, he had no more time to play with. His bargeman was waiting, and he had a wedding to get to. He decided to minimise the pain by turning sharply from her, and not looking back.

* * *

Rumours swirled about Linlithgow Palace like flurries of snow, and blizzard was blinding Margaret. People talked about her behind their hands as she passed, and she tried to ignore them, but all the time she picked up his name, and soon it was associated with the names of a many and varied array of women. Some in her household; some in the staff, and some who should know better. He never came to her during the night any more, not now that she had a belly like a leviathan sea monster.

Margaret turned to one side, and glanced at herself in profile in the mirror. Slowly, she smoothed down the front of her gown to reveal the swelling of the baby growing inside her. She knew she should be happy, but she knew it was the reason why Archibald never visited her any more. "He said he'd be there," she whispered, more to herself than the gaggle of women who surrounded her. "He said he'd never leave me alone."

"He said a lot of things."

The whispered, barely audible comment was followed by a swiftly stifled snort of laughter from one of the other women. Margaret whirled around, ready to tear a strip off the impertinent fools. Then she stopped, the barb on the tip of her tongue, but what could she say to contradict them? Her cheeks burned with shame, angry at the truth in their words about the Earl of Douglas, and shame that she was the left to look the fool. Now, the women were looking at her like she had gone mad.

"Enough chatter," she waspishly commanded, "on with whatever it is you're supposed to be doing."

Unable to bear being their focal point of gossip any longer, Margaret strode out of the room; out of her privy apartments altogether. Without even thinking about it, without making any conscious decision, she found herself marching towards her husband's chambers, located directly opposite her own, down a lengthy passageway. She afforded him no warning, and pushed the door open without knocking.

"Archie!"

Her voice rang shrilly through the chamber. A few doors away, muffled voices and a hasty scuffling broke out. Wanting to catch him in the act, she made straight for the source of the noise. She reached his sleeping chamber, swung open the door and found him with his shirt open, his breeches barely fastened and his hair a mess. He hadn't even shaved.

"God's sake, wife, will you knock-"

"Where is she?" her anger was simmering before, but now it was openly boiling over.

"Who?" he asked, giving a shrug and glancing around the room, "there's no one here beside you and I. Now will you calm down-"

Before Margaret knew what she was doing, she had cut him off with a slap that sent him reeling back against the screen he used to dress behind. It fell to the floor with a crash, and he almost came down on top of it. All Margaret could think was that at least his whore wasn't hiding there. He approached her now, his hands held out in an open gesture of surrender. "I think you had best sit down."

Angry tears blurred Margaret's vision as she fell back against the bed. "You have lied to me," she sobbed, "you have made me look a fool in front of everyone-"

"How?" he retorted angrily, "I love you; I married you, and now you come storming in here bandying around these unfounded accusations and I don't even know what people are telling you. You know how they lie about me; you know they're against me, and still you believe them. Really, I thought you knew me, Margaret."

Margaret was having none of his self-pity. She sprang back to her feet and launched another assault with her fists, pounding at his chest until he grabbed her wrists and immobilised her. She wanted to scream and shout, but her own fury was choking on her. Unable to use her fists, she drew up her knee and kicked his legs from under him. A burst of laughter erupted from her as she watched him hopping with pain, his face flushed scarlet,

"You bitch," he roared at her.

The insult was finally enough for her to get her tongue back. "You think to abandon me when I'm carrying your child, and think I'll just bear it. Well I won't!"

She didn't see the blow coming. It caught her on the jaw and sent her crashing back down to the bed, the feather mattress mercifully catching her fall. The pain of the slap made her howl like a stuck pig, bringing a fresh wave of hot, furious, tears streaming down her face as she struggled to get back to her feet. Even as she managed to right herself, the door had slammed and he had left her alone. She pulled off one shoe, and threw it as hard as she could at the spot where he had vanished, screaming at the top of her lungs at the door. To no avail at all.

* * *

Catherine paused at the door of the Abbey, and let Elizabeth Howard, Elizabeth Stafford, and Maria De Salinas smooth out her wedding dress. Inside, the organ was playing and the Choir Boys from the school were singing a Te Deum; their voices heavenly. It had begun, and now her heart was fluttering with nervous anticipation. She glanced over her shoulder, and nodded to the women who then set about managing the twelve foot long train of white damask that flowed out behind her like liquid.

In one hand, Catherine held a bouquet of white roses, just like the one the Edward found for her in her Winter Gardens. In the other, she held the hand of her son, King Henry IX. He barely came up to her waist, but he had drawn himself to his full height, and now beamed proudly up at his mother as they prepared to walk down the aisle together.

"Harry," she said, giving his hand a small squeeze, "are you ready?"

His grin grew that little bit wider, his eyes glittered with excitement. "Yes, Mama."

It was time. She barely had time to draw a deep, steadying breath before the doors to the Abbey swung open to revealed the assembled crowds. The pews were packed; not an empty seat to be seen anywhere in the place. All eyes turned simultaneously to look as Catherine and Henry took their first steps together. A gasp rippled around the Abbey, and more than one eye was being dabbed with silk handkerchiefs already, and the service was yet to start.

When the congregation turned to the King, faces fell in tenderness for him as he stole the hearts of all those who laid eyes on him. But, he did not seem to notice, he was far more concerned about escorting his mother up the aisle, and making her proud.

As she neared the alter, the Bishop of London appeared and began wafting incense from burners to sanctify the air. Above their heads, the stone columns soared into the fan vaulted ceiling, where the music and the singing of the choir boys could reach. It filled every inch of space. When they reached the altar, they stopped. Henry turned to his mother, and bowed again, eliciting another sigh from the congregation, and stepped backwards carefully to where his governess was waiting to take him to seat in the front row. Catherine watched him being led away with tears welling in her eyes. His first state occasion, and he had performed his duties perfectly.

When she looked back again, to the spot where the child had been, she found herself face to face with Edward Stafford. "You are beautiful," he whispered in her ear.

She gazed at him, standing there dressed every inch the Duke, and he filled her world. The rest of the Abbey seemed to melt away, replaced only by his presence. His dark hair had not quite been tamed, his clothes were as immaculate as always. But it was him she wanted. Not his finery, not his status or lands. Just him. She found herself wanting him at that very moment, but she supposed she would have to wait just a little bit longer, as the Bishop began the service.

"My Lords and Ladies, we have gathered before God this day to witness the joining together of this man, Edward of Buckingham, and this woman, Catherine Queen of England, in holy matrimony. May anyone with due cause to object do so now, or forever hold their peace."

Silence. Everyone seemed to hold their breath, beside the King who sneezed. Sneezes not counting as an objection, the ceremony moved swiftly on.

"Edward and Catherine, have you come here freely and without reservation to give yourselves to each other in marriage?"

Both Catherine and Edward affirmed that they had with a nod and a murmured "yes" without taking their eyes off each other.

"Will you honour each other as man and wife for the rest of your lives?"

Another murmured yes, both now eager to get to the vows. Their unification had been a long time coming.

"Will you accept children lovingly from God, and bring them up according to the law of Christ and his Church?"

"We will," they chorused.

Catherine briefly turned to the Bishop, who had the Bible open in his hands.

"Since it is your intention to enter into marriage," the Bishop began, "join your right hands, and declare your consent before God."

As Edward's right hand intertwined with hers, Catherine shivered as though the meeting of flesh had delivered a surge of energy. Her chest felt tight, and she was grateful that he had to speak first, because her own emotions were rendering her quite speechless.

"I, Edward of Buckingham, take you, Catherine of Aragon, to be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honour you all the days of my life."

A single tear slid down Catherine's face as she took her turn. "I, Catherine, take you, Edward, to be my husband. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love, honour and obey you for all the days of my life."

Out of the corner of her eye, Catherine could just see Henry slide down from his pew, and hurry up to the Bishop. From inside his pocket, he withdrew two gold rings, and placed them on the pages of the Bishop's open Bible, and silently sat back down again. Catherine thought her heart might burst as he did it.

The Bishop returned to his spot before the couple. "May the Lord bless these rings which you give to each other as the sign of your love and fidelity."

The whole congregation responded with: "Amen."

Again, it was Edward who went first. He picked up the smallest of the rings, and slid it carefully over Catherine's finger, sending another wave of emotion crashing over her. "Catherine, take this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

Catherine followed by placing the second ring on Edward's finger. "With this ring I do thee wed. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit."

And it was done. Catherine didn't hear the Bishop declaring them man and wife, she was lost in her own whirl of love and devotion to the man before her. The next thing she knew, she was being swept into a deep, lingering kiss. At last, they were man and wife.

* * *

The wedding feast was exquisite. Game, wild fowl, beef and venison were spread out for the guests, followed by a masque in which everyone took part beside the newly weds. Catherine and Edward watched from the dais in the Great Hall – everything was done for them. Even the little King had a role to play, albeit, not a very complicated one. He had to wear woollen antlers and pretend to be a deer being stalked by the huntress, Diana. But he did it with pride, to the delight of everyone there. Once that was done, and the exhausted King had been carried up to his bed, the dancing began.

Finally, as the hour struck midnight, Edward led Catherine into the dance. Uncertainly, at first, as it had been so long so either of them had had the leisure to dance. But soon, they leaned into each other, got the feel of each other's step as they turned in time to the music that filled the hall. As the tempo slowed, they finally had time to talk.

"Did you enjoy it?" he asked.

Catherine beamed. "It was the most beautiful day of my live," she replied, resting her face against his chest.

He leaned down to kiss her. "It's all for you," he said, "everything is for you."

They closed their eyes and kissed again, not caring a fig for who was watching them. All they wanted, all they needed now, was each other. But as they swayed to the music, someone cleared their throat.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty."

They almost tripped over each other as they suddenly stopped and whirled around to find both Thomas More and Thomas Wolsey before them, their faces a mask of apologetic embarrassment.

"Forgive us, both of you," said Sir Thomas, weakly. "We have news from France."

"Can't it wait?" Edward snapped at both of them. Catherine groaned, trying to bury her face in his doublet like an Ostrich with its head in the sand.

"Ah, I'm afraid it's rather important."

"Out with it, man!" Catherine demanded as she looked up again. Her expression was murderous, "so help me God, I'll strike you both down if this is some petty trifle."

Thomas Wolsey stepped forwards into the small clearing that had formed around the Duke and new Duchess. "It is Princess Mary," he said, "she has married Charles Brandon."

As soon as he said it, it felt as if the whole room fell into a state of suspended animation. Everything seemed to stop, but Catherine didn't know if she had just imagined that. She didn't imagine Edward swearing heavily, though. He stormed off in a temper to go and cool down, whereas Catherine sagged with defeat. She wished she had something to stamp on.

However, when she replied, she did so in an icily cool manner. "Go away," she told them, "and do not bother me with this again for the rest of this week."

The two men did not wait to be instructed twice. They bowed low and backed away like whipped schoolboys. Thankfully, Edward returned just as they vanished into the swelling of the crowd, and he was able to walk her back to the dais. Just one week was all Catherine wanted. Just one week to be a normal woman. Now, it seemed, even that was too much to ask.


	15. Seven Days

**Authors Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story; your input means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Thanks again for reading, and reviews, as always, would be greatly appreciated. Thank you.

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen: Seven Days.**

Edward Stafford curled his finger around the thread that held Catherine's night rail in place, and gave a gentle tug. "A wise man once said: 'all stories are love stories,'" he said, before trailing kisses over her newly exposed chest, down over her breasts. Every time his lips made contact with her skin she gasped, each kiss causing a thrill of anticipation to course through her. "I think that's what he said, anyway."

She lay back against the feather mattress of their bed, letting him have his way eagerly. But she wasn't completely lost. "Is this you trying to talk Charles Brandon out of trouble, again?" By the time she spoke, he had vanished under the quilt and was now trying wriggle up inside her night rail, no doubt stretching it out of shape as it strained to fit around both of them.

"It is not!" came Edward's muffled reply, "it's me trying to seduce you again; to the devil with Brandon."

Catherine laughed as Edward gave up the fight against the night rail, and resumed kissing her, now working his way down her thighs. It was dawn, and their barge would be there to take them back to Court in just a few short hours; Catherine knew that time was not on their side. But, she wanted to make the most of what was left to them. "Do it now," she said, coaxing him onwards, "I need you now."

Despite it all, they had spent seven days alone together at Greenwich, several miles upriver of Windsor – well out of the way of the bear pit of State. They had been secluded with a skeleton staff to attend to their needs, but for most of the time all they had needed was each other. But, by mid-morning, the dream would be over.

Edward resurfaced, flushed from being under the covers for so long, his dark hair tousled and breathless with desire for her. "As you wish," he grinned wolfishly as he lowered himself down onto her, closing her in his embrace, for the precious final moments before duty, once again, called.

* * *

Margaret made the most of the stillness of dawn, and stole her way through her apartments before her ladies could wake and disturb her. She opened the chamber doors to be greeted by perfect stillness and silence outside; only the distant tap-tap-tapping of the guards steel toe-capped boots could be heard. Satisfied that she was alone, she collected her warmest cloak, and slipped outside into the gallery that led to her husband's chambers.

Outside his door, a guard paced. She gestured to him to let her inside. He hesitated, looking her up and down, but then, evidently, decided against trying to argue with her. Just a few short years ago, she knew, her every word would have been acted upon without so much as a bat of an eyelid. However, Margaret was becoming accustomed to her new, slipping, place in the grand scheme of the Scottish Court, and let the incident slide. Once she was inside Archibald's chambers, she could hear his gentle, rhythmic snoring drifting from within the antechamber where he slept.

She slipped off her shoes and lifted her hems clear of her ankles as she tip-toed cautiously across the floorboards towards the office at the rear of the chambers. The door was always unlocked while he was in residence, so this was Margaret's only opportunity to see what he was holding back from her. She had been expecting letters; letters that always seemed to go astray.

The room was small, but cluttered. Stacks of papers were left piled haphazardly on the writing bureau; dust coated books were piled on every surface – she didn't even know he had such an extensive library. Portraits of his ancestors hung unevenly on the walls; their blank eyes following her as she moved through the gloom of the room. She first tried the desk drawers, and found them locked. Inside the cupboards, there were more papers and books. Papers of land deeds and tithes – nothing of importance to her.

"What are you doing in here?"

She hadn't noticed that the snoring had stopped. His voice scared the wits out of her, even if he was still half-asleep. Her heartbeat raced, but she took a deep breath and turned slowly to face him. He was standing in the open doorway, one hand resting on the handle, the other gripping the neck of his nightshirt as though he were coy about exposing any flesh to her. Margaret moved to the opposite side of the bureau, cautious of getting too close, while desperately trying to explain her presence in his private office.

"I couldn't sleep," she said, trying to stay calm. "I didn't want to wake you, so I waited in here for you."

His expression darkened; the frown furrowing his brow. "Don't lie to me," he replied, his voice low and dangerous, "you were going through my things."

If she screamed, no one would hear her. She was alone with him, and he was blocking the room's only escape. He knew it, too, and he positioned himself so that he obstructed the whole doorway. He took a small step forwards, and kicked the door closed behind him; trapping them both in there together.

As he advanced, Margaret retreated until she bumped into the bureau behind her and could go no further. "I was looking for something to read," she tried to explain, but she was shaking with fear. She steadied herself against the bureau, but she was shaking so badly the whole thing seemed to tremble with her. "I was not prying, Archie, believe me. I know how this must look. But I swear..." her words broke, melted away into a fearful silence as he took another step towards her.

His scowl deepened. "Why are you lying to me?" he asked, sounding like a wronged child, full of hurt feelings and wounded pride. All the while, he was getting closer and closer. Margaret was straining her back, already painful with her pregnancy, leaning backwards across the bureau to get as far away from him as possible. She even turned her face away to avoid the torture of watching him close in on her. She felt like a hunted animal, and he was a hunter who liked to play with his prey.

Slowly, he raised his hand. Margaret braced herself for the blow and screwed her eyes shut tight, whimpering in fear. But the blow did not come. He simply cupped her chin in his hands, and tilted her face so that they faced each other. "Why are you letting them poison your mind against me?"

With no other choice but to look at him, the tears stung Margaret's eyes. She tried to stop herself, tried to toughen up and look him in the eye. But, he had destroyed her. He had got under her skin, into her mind, and eaten her away from within. "I don't," she replied, barely audible with fear, "I swear, I still love you, Archibald. You've got to believe me; I would never do anything to hurt you. You know that."

Archibald took her wrists and pulled her upwards, and embraced her. Tentatively, unsure of whether he was playing with her before lashing out, Margaret reciprocated. For a long moment, he just held her, leaning over her swollen belly. "I can't believe that you would take their word over mine, when it's them who took your son away," he whispered in her ear. "Because of them, you'll never see King James again and you take your anger out on me, and it's just not fair."

He sounded like he was the abused one; yet, Margaret could not recall a single incident of her hitting him in quite the way that he liked to hit her. But all she wanted was to get as far from him as possible. "I know," she whispered into his shoulder, "I don't deserve you, Archie. I love you so much, but you're right. I want to make it up to you, but I need you to show me how." She didn't want to lay it on too thick and stopped before she sounded contrived.

To her surprise, he was weeping. She could feel the tear drops dripping onto her shoulder as he continued to hug her. "There, there," she whispered, patting his back. "I love you." The words left her lips as her mind finally concluded that the man was quite insane. "Let me take you back to bed," she added, hopefully. He nodded, suddenly compliant. But Margaret knew the man was like a lion. He could roll over and have his belly tickled for a time, but one false move and he would tear your throat out. For now, however, Margaret had tamed him, and took his hand in her own as she led him back to his bed. She even climbed in next to him, all the while planning her escape from Linlithgow. The time had finally come, and she could take no more.

* * *

Mary rolled her eyes as she looked out of the window of her chambers. "Rain!" she sighed impatiently and flounced away. Lady Anne chased after her clutching a cloak, anxious that her mistress would not catch a chill while she outdoors. Lady Mary, meanwhile, had already been sent ahead to keep the King of France distracted from Mary during his scant leisure hours. Lady Mary had been evasive about just how she had succeeded in keeping Francis away from the Queen Dowager, and they didn't like to pry. But more than once, she had seen the two sisters huddled together, talking quietly amongst themselves – things that the former Queen knew she was not included in. She did not mind, however, for whatever it was it kept her free to see Charles. All she needed was the women's discretion.

Once Mary emerged into the open courtyard of the Palace, she pulled up her hood to ward off the rain, and made her way around the back, where the horses were stabled. She paused while she asked Anne to remain hidden while she went off to find Charles. The cobbles were wet and slick with dirt, meaning she had to go slowly, while turning this way and that as she sought him out. She went to check his note again, to make sure she had the right time and day, but realised she had left it in her chambers. She almost cursed. But then, she heard a low whistle, and a man hissed her name. When she whirled round, she saw Charles on the opposite side of the wrought iron gates that were locked.

"Charles!" she gasped, rushing over to be near him, "can't you get inside? We can't talk through these bars!"

His expression was apologetic. "I'm locked out, my love," he explained, "but listen, I don't have much time before I meet with the King. Your month of official mourning is truly over, and he has no right to keep you here-"

Mary second guessed where Charles was going. "Are you going to tell him?"

Charles nodded, making large droplets of water splash from his fringe and into his eyes. "God's death, this weather!" he groaned, looking up at the leaden skies stretched out over their heads. "After today, we will be together. No need for all this secrecy and sneaking around," he added, looking back at her through the bars of the gate. "Well, almost. Still got Catherine to deal with."

A pang of guilt twisted Mary's gut. "Oh Charles, she found out about us on her wedding day," she said, "I would give anything for her to have been informed much later. For her sake, and for ours."

"It will be all right, I promise you," he assured her, pressing himself up close to the gate so they could kiss through the iron bars. When they pulled away again, the had dirty wet stripes running down their cheeks.

"When Francis finds out he will want us gone from his Court," Mary said, wiping her face with the sleeve of her cloak. "Where will we go, Charles?"

"We head for Calais; by the time we get there news from home would have reached us and we will know what to do."

Charles was reminded of his last trip to France – when the old King had died and he and Buckingham were forced to travel across the country with his corpse. No news had come from home then, either. Everything they did was secrets and lies. Everything.

"Mary," he said, preparing for his meeting with Francis, "I'm going to try and get as much of your dowry back as possible. But I will be out of there by four at the latest. Meet me here again, and be ready to go immediately – I don't know how he's going to react." He nodded towards the main Palace, indicating Francis. "Hopefully Mary Boleyn has been keeping him sweet enough to let us go with no trouble."

Mary grinned as her ladies secret suddenly dawned on her. "So that's what she's being doing with Francis?" she asked, raising a brow. "I'll be here. Go now, just go."

Before he went, they were back up against the bars for one final parting kiss. Despite the rain, and the muddy waters soaking into the hems of her good skirts, Mary stayed and watched her new husband dart off into the fog that lay low in the streets around them. Her heart ached for him at these moments, when he first left her. In the short time that they had been together he had become her rock, always steady in the numerous times of crisis they had already faced together. All she could do now was pray that they cleared their final hurdle and made it to the other side in one piece.

* * *

Duty called the moment Catherine arrived back at the Palace of Richmond, where the Court was in residence. She and Edward entered the Great Hall to a rapturous reception from the staff and the Privy Counsel who lined up along the walls to welcome them home. The newly weds greeted each and every one of them. But, as soon as that was done, and a round of drinks had been drunk to toast the couple, it was back to business as usual. To Catherine, it had all passed in the blink of eye.

While they were still sat upon the dais, Catherine let her head fall back against Edward's shoulder. "It was all so short," she sighed, "now we're back to seeing each other for only spare hours between meetings and business."

"Let me help you, then," he replied, setting his glass down on the table and kissing her, "if we can't spend the rest of our days in pursuit of idleness, then let's spend our days together sorting this lot out." He gestured towards the mass of people gathered in the hall, indicating who he meant.

Catherine stifled a laugh. "This lot? That's no way to speak of your own aunt."

"My aunt?"

Catherine nodded. "We're meeting her now, so drink up and let's get on with it."

They found Catherine of York waiting patiently in the Outer-Chambers with her daughter, Margaret, silent at her side. They were both swathed in black; a mark of respect, Catherine presumed, for their husband and father, dead six years. She thought it excessive, especially for young Margaret who was still a maid. "Lady Exeter," Catherine greeted the ageing widow with all due courtesy, "what a pleasure it is to see you back at Court." She reached out and stopped her from curtseying to her, mindful of her age and former rank as Princess, and instead guided her through to the Presence Chamber.

"Your Grace does me great kindness," the Countess remarked as she linked arms with her daughter and followed Catherine and Edward inside. "May I congratulate you and my nephew on your wedding. Our gift to you will be delivered shortly."

Edward paused, and kissed the lady on both cheeks. "We're very grateful, aunt. But really, you shouldn't have."

"Oh it was nothing, really!" she waved both their thanks away. "And I have no desire to use up all your scant leisure time, either. I remember how it is for those in power; my poor father never had a moment to himself. It was all work, work, work. The country before all else."

Edward leaned to the side, and whispered in Catherine's ear: "Whores, whores, whores; more like!"

She smacked his arm sharply while stifling a snort of laughter at the same time. "Stay as long as it pleases you to do so, My Lady of Exeter," Catherine said, shooting Edward a sharp look, "tell me, is Harry with you?"

In answer to her question, Harry Courtenay appeared through the doors, struggling to carry a great standing cup of gold. The thing was enormous, with great, ornate, handles; more like a gaudy trophy than anything else. Catherine thought that she had never seen anything quite so hideous. "It's beautiful," she beamed at the Countess, "you do us too much honour."

Edward's grin became fixed and strained when he saw what Harry was carrying. "It's certainly something," he mused, and got a sharp dig in the ribs from Catherine in returned. "I mean, it's lovely. Thank you, aunt Catherine."

Harry let it drop to the floor with a dull thud; exhausted from hauling it through the Palace. "There are servants to do this sort of thing, you know," he pointed out to his mother as he bent down to kiss her cheek. Catherine noticed that he, too, looked at it in horror. Up close, it was even worse. It was decorated with naked cherubs and frolicking unicorns, and it was gold leaf – rather than gold. It was already flaking.

The Countess turned an indifferent eye to her son. "That will teach you to go giving yourself away to common wenches, won't it?"

Harry blushed, discreetly trying to hide his face, as he let himself fall into the seat beside his mother. Catherine's heart ached for him, and felt compelled to speak: "She is the daughter of an Earl-"

"Like I said," the Countess cut her off, "a common sort of girl."

At Catherine's side, Edward shuddered with suppressed laughter. To cover it up, Catherine continued: "Am I right in assuming that you have come to see me about Harry's future marriage?"

"That is correct," the Countess confirmed, "I have made an arrangement with Sir John Blount for his daughter, Gertrude, to marry my son. I would like Your Grace's blessing, as Harry is still a ward of Court."

"What?" Harry choked, looking askance at his mother (who deigned not to have heard him).

Even Edward was being serious now. "I think it would have been a little more seemly to tell Harry first," he remarked.

Emboldened by the Duke's support, Harry protested further. "Mother, you can't!"

"I think you'll find that I can, and I have," she replied, her tone was final.

Catherine looked at Margaret, Harry's silent sister who remained silent. She just clung to her mother's arm, and kept her eyes trained on the floor. Harry was getting no support from that corner. With grim inevitability, they all turned to Catherine, awaiting her final decision. She looked at Harry, all her sorrow and sympathy channelled in her expression – or so she hoped. He looked back at her, and immediately looked away again as though he couldn't bring himself to hear what she was inevitably going to say.

No one relished making anyone unhappy. "I see no impediment to the marriage," said Catherine. "You have my blessing, and the blessing of the Regency Counsel."

Harry looked foundered, as though he'd been cut adrift with no life raft. His mother simply got to her feet with an alacrity that gave lie to her advancing age, and bid her farewells. Margaret smiled at the Queen as she passed, a small smile of support. At least someone understood the awkwardness of Catherine's predicament. But, as Harry finally got his wits together enough to follow, Catherine caught him by the elbow, bidding him to remain.

"Edward, will you leave us, please?"

Edward replied with a small nod; gave her a small peck on the cheek and left them to it. "Good luck," he whispered in her ear as he rose.

Once they were alone, Catherine asked a servant to pour them some wine. She handed a glass to Harry, who was polite enough to take it – even if she had fallen into his enemy camp. She thought he looked defeated. There was no fight in him, now; just a grim resignation.

"Do you understand why I had to do that?" she asked him, leaning forwards in her seat.

He gave a jerk of his head that passed as a nod. "Of course."

She waited for him to go on, but he remained stubbornly silent after that closed declaration.

"This Gertrude," said Catherine, desperate to not only to fill the silence, but justify her actions, "maybe you will grow to love her. Many do. I did when I married Prince Arthur."

But this was different. Catherine knew she was marrying Arthur from being a small child. This had been sprung on Harry out of the blue; sold cheap to keep him out of further trouble and to spare his proud Princess of a mother any further humiliation.

"I'll marry Mistress Blount," he eventually said, "but what will follow, I cannot say. I have never even heard of her before today."

"I know her father, and I have seen her at Court once or twice," Catherine informed him. "She is a fair maid, the same age as you. Just, give her a chance. If you find you cannot love her, there are ways and means. But remember, if you cast her off, it doesn't mean you will get Aislin back. I have been asked to send her back to Scotland. You will probably never see her again. I would that it were any other way, for the love I've always had for you, Harry. But I can do no more."

Harry looked up at Catherine, his eyes shone with tears but he kept himself in check. "Thank you, Your Grace. I appreciate all you have done and I know Aislin does, too. But, you must see that Lennox will kill her for what she did."

"Aislin is returning to Margaret's household; she has not given assent to the Lennox match yet," Catherine explained.

"But Margaret is no longer in control-"

"No, Aislin is one of her Ladies. It's up to Margaret to let her go, and I have a feeling that she won't because she's trying to claw back control of the Regency there."

Harry allowed himself a small smile. "That's something, then," he said, sighing with relief.

"I think you had better tell her that yourself," Catherine said. "Go to her at the Tower, and tell no one. It's the only mercy I can show you, now."

Harry got up and kissed her cheek in gratitude, making her smile at last. "I am forever in your debt, Your Grace!"

He turned on his heel, tripped over the ugly standing cup, sending both it and him skidding across the floor. Catherine clapped her hand to her mouth to stop herself from bursting out laughing. "I know," she called out after him. Then, he was gone.

* * *

Darkness had fallen by the time Harry reached the tower. All was silent but for the occasional shout of a drunk down by the river, or a dog barking at the full moon high over head. He wrapped his cloak tightly around his shoulders, and knocked firmly on the door of the Lieutenant's lodgings. The man's face appeared through a crack in the door, stony faced, as though he were expecting trouble from a late night caller. He said nothing, merely nodding at Harry's presence on his doorstep, and went to fetch his keys.

As soon as he was in Aislin's chambers, guards took up a position on either side of the door less they should think of a last minute getaway. Aislin herself was sat by the window, looking out over the dark Thames as it undulated silently through the blackened streets. He didn't think she had heard him enter, because she did not turn to look at him. She remained motionless, looking, but not seeing, what was going on out there. He remembered the night they broke into an empty house, the way she looked at him. The memories were bitter-sweet at best now, though.

"Ash," he called her by her familiar name.

Finally, she turned her face away from the mullions. The moonlight made the tear tracks glisten on her cheeks and her coal black eyes glitter. "Harry," she softly replied, "is it true?"

Harry took a step closer, and eased the chamber door shut behind him. "Do you mean the wedding?"

Aislin nodded, but did not speak.

"Yes."

Lies would only make things worse. The truth could be dealt with head on. Her body trembled with the impact of his reply and she hastily wiped away her tears, only for them to be replaced with fresh ones. Unable to see her suffer any longer, Harry rushed across the room and threw his arms around her.

"I'm sorry; I'm so sorry," he spoke into her shoulder and they held each other tight. "I will come back for you. One day, I will come and get you. Never lose hope."

"How?" she asked, hopelessly.

He tightened his hold on her. "I'll find a way; I always do."

As though she didn't want to let herself get her hopes up any more, Aislin made no reply. "I'll keep in touch," she promised. She pulled away and lifted a chain from around her neck, on which her unique seal ring hung. "You know my seal, and I know yours. We must stay in touch. Something will come up; this is not the end."

"No, it's not the end," he agreed, leaning in to kiss her for the last in God only knew how long. But she was right, and he was resolved to that. This was not the end.


	16. All in the Blood

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story; your input means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Please read and review, thank you!

Apologies to "**Guest**"; I've added a conversation between Harry and Gertrude that I hope will clear things up for you (and anyone else who may have found this plot point confusing), rather then explain it as a lengthy author's note – I hope you continue to enjoy the story!

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen: All In The Blood.**

Catherine and Edward stood side by side, the King in front of them, each with a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place, as they waited outside the front entrance of Richmond Palace. The sun shone down spreading some much welcome mid-summer heat, so they dispensed with their cloaks and furs. Catherine wore a simple gown, but still decorated with many a fine gem. Her coronet was that of Queen Dowager, and he hair was plaited with strings of diamonds that caught and splintered the light, making her dark hair wink suggestively whenever she turned her head. Edward was getting impatient, and shifted from one foot to another, while keeping a firm hand on his step-son's shoulder – Henry was fit to run off at any moment. He was at an age when any distraction was enough to throw him off course.

"Where are they?" the boy asked, looking down the carriage way, shielding his eyes from the sun.

Catherine bent down and kissed his cheek. "Be patient, Harry, your new step-brother will be here soon."

He had already met his step-sister, Elizabeth Stafford. But today, Edward's son and heir, Henry Stafford, was due to arrive at Court for the first time. He was being educated in the household of the Earl of Northumberland, and had not made it to London in time for the wedding; impassable roads, or so he had said in a letter. It had the ring of an excuse, or so Catherine thought. She looked across at Edward, about to speak, when Henry drowned her voice out.

"Here he comes!" he exclaimed, jumping up and down so he could see better. "Look, mama, look!"

Both Catherine and Edward tightened their grip on the child. "Harry!" Catherine laughed, "be patient, please."

The carriage, pulled by four Destrier horses sped up the gravel track and drew to a clattering halt right in front of them. Footmen materialised from the sidelines, swung open the doors, and a young man of about fifteen summers stepped out, and stretched leisurely. Catherine thought he had not seen them gathered there. But even when they got his attention, he simply seemed to look around as though he was expecting to have arrived anywhere else but there. He looked right through his own father, as if the Duke was a stranger in the street. A barbed comment was on the tip of Catherine's tongue, but before she could utter a single acidic word, Edward descended the steps three at a time, and strode over to his son's side.

"Hal!" he greeted the boy with open arms, pulling him into a bear hug.

Catherine looked on helplessly as the boy seemed to freeze, only returning his father's embrace after a tense hesitation of several seconds. "Oh," he said, "hello, father."

She knew the English were stiff at times; emotionally retarded, even. But Hal Stafford was raising the bar high, even by the standards of the rest of his countrymen. But Edward didn't seem to notice. He threw an arm around Hal's shoulders as though he were an old friend, and steered him up the steps to where Catherine and Henry waited. Hal was shrinking from his father the whole time. Such a strange boy, Catherine thought.

"Meet Her Majesty, Queen Catherine," Edward said, gesturing to Catherine, who raised a bemused smile. "Your new step-mother." He then pointed to Henry. Catherine leaned down a little to measure the boy's reaction. He was beaming from ear to ear – excited at the prospect of a brother. "This is your new step-brother, His Majesty King Henry IX".

Hal Stafford glanced only briefly at Henry, and then straight back up to Catherine, his lip curled into what could almost pass as a smile. "A pleasure to meet Your Grace," he said, extending a hand. Catherine looked at it, not quite sure what to do. Especially since Hal had all but ignored poor Henry.

Edward laughed. "I think you wait for her majesty to extend her hand, son," he said, giving the boy a playful slap on the back.

"Thank you, Edward," she said, flatly, then held out her hand for him to kiss. He didn't. He shook it as if he were closing a business deal instead of meeting his new family. Catherine had never been so affronted. "Welcome home," she said, briskly turning away, almost dragging Henry by the wrists behind her. The boy winced as her nails dug into him, but she did not notice.

As she reached the doors of Richmond, she heard Edward's voice in the distance. "Oh dear! I think you've offended her."

She stopped abruptly, about to say something. But, Elizabeth Boleyn caught her eye, she was standing just behind the door, but peering out. "Let it go," she mouthed. Catherine inwardly agreed with her, and instead of causing a scene in public, she hurried over to Elizabeth.

"That boy is strange," she whispered once they reached each other.

Elizabeth took Henry's hand from her, it was red from where Catherine had gripped it in her anger at Hal Stafford. "How long is he here for?" asked Elizabeth glancing back the way Catherine had come. Father and son were now inspecting the front lawns together.

"Too long," Catherine replied icily. Just as they were marching through the corridors, Catherine came to a halt by an alcove. "Oh Elizabeth," she sighed, giving her temples a rub. "You don't think I was harsh on the boy, do you?"

Elizabeth arched a brow. "It's a long journey from Northumberland," she replied, "he will be exhausted. He has not seen his father for over a year. It may account for his, er, odd behaviour."

Catherine hesitated for a few deep breaths. "Perhaps you're right," she agreed. "It was only a small breech of protocol; normally, I would not say anything."

Elizabeth placed a hand on Catherine's arm. "Come, your grace," she said, "let's freshen up and see if you feel better later."

"Yes, and send for the physician," replied Catherine as they began walking again. She leaned in close to Elizabeth, and whispered low: "I think I am with child again."

Elizabeth clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide like saucers. But she kept her squeal of excitement to herself. "Right away, Your Grace," she finally replied.

Catherine smiled. It had only taken three months, and she knew it already. She could feel it there; just something different. That, and her temper had been like a cannon backfiring at random and she had started to feel sick at the smell of roasting pork. Just like it did with the King. She watched Elizabeth vanish in the small crowds that were milling about in the galleries in the main Palace, and let herself back in the Royal Apartments. She had some good news for Mary, before she attended Harry Courtenay's betrothal ceremony.

* * *

Before she left her chambers, Aislin splashed several handfuls of freezing cold water on her face. Her eyes were red and puffy from tears, her skin pale and stretched, but the water did its job. Clean and fresh, she dressed herself in a plain gown, smoothed out the skirts that were still rumpled from the London to Edinburgh journey, and made sure her shoes shone and her stockings had no holes. Satisfied that she was presentable, she gathered all her strength and resolve, and prepared to return to Queen Margaret.

As she walked through the palace, she made sure to walk with her back straight and her head held high, ignoring the whispering voices that trailed after her. Inside, she felt two inches tall, but she was resolved not to let them see that. When she arrived outside Margaret's apartments, she paused while the Chamberlain announced her. She was meant to take the time to compose herself, brace herself for what was coming. But the sounds from within distracted her. It sounded as if the place was being demolished. Muffled thumps, crates being dragged across wooden floors, and the raised voices of the women could be heard. Aislin frowned, pressing her ear a little closer to the door, trying to make out what was going on in there. Before long, however, the Chamberlain was back, and ushering her inside.

The scene that greeted her was chaotic. The Queen, mindless of her full pregnancy, was hastily throwing stockings and shoes into travel chests, even though she had plenty of servants for that sort for that sort of thing. When Aislin returned, she had expected a forceful rebuke, but Margaret just paused, looked at her, and said: "Praise God, you're here." She sounded breathless and exhausted, her face marred by a livid bruise that spread across her left cheek. Her right eye complimented the bruising with a blackening mark. She looked as though she had been boxed until she saw stars. All of Aislin's worries and fears vanished the instant she saw the pitiable state of the Queen.

"Do you need help, Your Grace?" she asked, hesitantly, stepping a little closer.

Margaret began rummaging again, and did not look at Aislin as she spoke. "Please," she said, "we're fleeing to England. Tonight. No time to waste. Hurry girl!"

Aislin's first thought was that they would never make it. She didn't know why they were running, and she didn't much care. Because whatever it was, it was not worth dying for and Margaret surely would if she didn't rest soon. "Your Grace," she said, moving to catch Margaret before she fell into a faint. "Please, lie down and leave this to us."

Margaret threw out both her hands to steady herself, using Aislin's shoulders for support. The other women did nothing – they just carried on throwing items into cases as if everything were normal. Aislin steered the Queen into a nearby antechamber, and lowered her down to the ground. There wasn't even a comfortable seat for her. "Your Grace, this must wait until after the baby is born."

Margaret shook her head, tears leaking from between her closed eyes. "It can't," she wept, "we must go now, while he thinks I'm in confinement."

"He?" she asked. "You mean your husband? Did he do this to you?" She gestured to the Queen's face, not caring a fig for propriety.

Margaret nodded, still with her eyes closed. Aislin lowered herself to the ground so that they were sat side by side. Her head was still reeling from the situation she had walked in on, and things only got worse. Water seeped across the ground – water coming from the Queen. Her waters had broken, and she was wincing in pain from early contractions.

* * *

Mary tore the seal off the letter and read it at speed, gripping the edges so tight her nails punctured the fresh parchment. "We're going home!" she cried out from the hallway of the manor they had lodged in. "Charles! We're going home!"

The letter slipped from her hands and she ran through to the parlour, where Charles was standing by the empty hearth. It was so warm in Calais that the fire hadn't been needed. To her dismay, however, Charles failed to reciprocate her enthusiasm. He just carried on starng contemplatively at the spot where the flames should have been.

"Didn't you hear what I said, Charles?" she asked, pausing in the doorway.

"I heard."

"Then why are you not happy?" she asked, confused. "This is everything we could have hoped for."

Finally, he turned to look at her. "Is it?" he asked, "I failed to get your dowry back, and we married without license. Do you really think the Queen will let me just go back as though nothing happened?"

Mary snatched up the letter from where it had fallen, and handed it to Charles. "Read it for yourself," she said, thrusting it at his chest. "Catherine has given us her word. I don't know why, but she has. We can trust her, Charles."

Charles read the letter much more carefully than Mary had. He took it through to the solar, where the light was better, and sat down to study it in detail. Mary waited, tapping her foot rhythmically against the wooden floorboards, while he read the letter through twice. Finished, he simply folded it up and tucked it into the pocket of his doublet.

"Are you still not satisfied?" she asked, exasperated now.

Charles shrugged, and then held his arms open for a hug. "It's the best we'll get."

Mary held back. "Then you agree that we can sail home at last?"

He smiled, and nodded. Mary rushed across the room and bounced into his lap. "I love you," she said, leaning in for a kiss. "Everything will be just perfect from now on – you'll see."

The ceremony was brief and perfunctory. Harry signed where the lawyers and clergyman pointed on all the right documents, and a girl he had not seen before did the same. Then he and the stranger were man and wife in the eyes of the law. The happy event was conducted in the offices of Thomas Wolsey: the man himself, the Queen Dowager, and both families in attendance. A polite round of applause set the seal on the deal. This wasn't the wedding, of course, but it was the contract that counted.

No one wasted any time in leaving, except for Harry. He remained seated at the desk, and to his consternation, so did Gertrude Blount. Her mother hovered by the doorway, a black clad crow guarding the nest. He glanced over to the girl, who quickly averted her gaze to the window and pretended that she hadn't been looking at him. Her hair was long, thick and dark – just like Aislin. But her eyes were cornflower blue; her skin pale with just the faintest blush in her cheek, like someone had slapped the colour into them a few days ago. Her nose was small, upturned like a child's. Under normal circumstances, he knew he would have found her attractive, if his heart didn't already belong to another.

Gertrude must have felt his eyes on her. She turned to face him, opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. He was about to write her off as simple, before he realised he hadn't made much of an effort himself and at least she was trying.

Eventually, she spoke, and in a manner of frank honesty that took him by surprise. "I don't expect you to love me," she said, "but I would like a child."

She made it sound like she was simply asking for a new pair of shoes; it was all part of a bargain they had been forced into striking. But, it was oddly fitting that the sterility of the ceremony would be rounded off with such an emotionless statement from the bride.

"God willing," he replied. He had never given a seconds thought to children.

Gertrude got up, and crossed to the window she was looking at from afar, and gazed down at whatever was going on in the Courtyard below. He thought he should follow her, but instead remained seated, giving her the space to talk. "I know there was someone else," she stated. He tried to gage how she felt about that from the tone of her voice – but she gave nothing away. "I know you would not have chosen this."

The denial was on his lips, but stopped himself. He could not, in all honesty, contradict her. "Would you have chosen this?" he asked, giving a shrug of his shoulders. Deflecting a question was as good as answering it.

She turned from the window, looking at him wide eyed and innocent. "Why can't you have her?" she asked, then flushed red. "Forgive me if I pry, but I'm curious. I am a Baron's daughter, she is an Earl's daughter. You have more to gain from her."

Harry raised a wan smile. "Maybe I would have too much to gain with a man like that for a father in law," he answered. "Besides, she was already precontracted to the Earl of Lennox, from long before she met me. We were foolish to let our hearts rule our heads like that."

She bowed her head. "I'm sorry," she said, her tone soft, seemingly sincere. "When you say: 'too much to gain', do you mean the Queen feared the Earl of Kildare would exploit your claim to the throne?"

"Queen Catherine is too gracious to come out and say such a thing, but she reminded me of my status when I asked her license to marry," he explained, "I took it to mean as you said. That I would be a danger, or someone may wish to turn me into a danger."

Her expression darkened as she crossed the room and sat back down. "You are still a danger to them, no matter who you marry," she said, "even me."

He nodded. "Always. It's all in the blood."

Gertrude looked as if she were finally having doubts. Before, she went through the motions with a business like manner. Now, the realities were setting in, the wider complications revealing themselves to her. "If we have a son..." her words trailed off, her eyes cast down to her lap.

"He too, will be a threat." Suddenly, quite out of the blue, something in him snapped, and a sorrow for the girl flooded him. She didn't seem to know what her family had let her in for. He leaned over, and took her hand in his own. "Gertrude, if we live quietly, and ignore the plotting of the others, we will live out our days in peace, and so will whatever children we have."

She gave a small, jerky, nod of her head. "The Queen clearly loves you, though. She will do right by you."

The truth was, and Harry opted to keep it to himself at that moment, that the Queen loved and feared the remaining Plantagenets in equal measure. The fear didn't stem directly from him, but what others may do in his name, especially disgruntled earls with inflated ambitions of national sovereignty.

Harry got up and extended to his hand to her. "My Lady, I expect nothing from you," he said, "but we're in this together, now." He recalled, all too strongly, saying the same thing to another girl. It was becoming a habit.

Gertrude rose elegantly to her feet again, her former worries now smoothed away. She was almost the same height as him, he noticed, and as slender as a willow branch. "Nor I," she replied, "but it I pray that, in time, you and I become great friends."

It was the best either of them could hope for.

* * *

All was quiet in Margaret's chambers. The storm of childbirth had passed, and all was still in disarray. Buckets of water spilled on the floor; soiled bed linens dumped in the corner, and clothes still cast about the floor. It had been a struggle, and Margaret had truly believed herself dead in and in hell, at its worst. But now, as she held a little red-haired baby girl in her arms, watching her suckle, a serenity had settled; a peace she had not known in many a year. Then, Archibald arrived. He paused by the doorway, looking in on them both, but Margaret ignored him.

"What is it?" he asked.

Margaret rolled her eyes. "A baby."

She knew what he was really asking. He had hoped for a son, and she was dreading his reaction, but at that moment, she did was beyond caring what he did to her. She had endured the baby's birth; she could survive anything. She heard his footsteps, that measured tap of the steel toe-caps, drawing closer, stopping when he reached her side. Still, she could not bring herself to look at him.

"It's a girl," she stated.

Silence. He reached out, and touched the blankets that the baby was swaddled in, and a drip of water splashed on to her face. She screwed up her face in response, but carried on suckling. The drip didn't come from Margaret, and at first she thought the roof was leaking. It was swiftly followed by another. A shuddering breath came from Archibald, drawing Margaret's attention to him. The tears were pouring down his face; he was transfixed by the baby.

"Oh, Margaret," he sighed, easing himself into a chair. "Isn't she lovely? Isn't she perfect?"

He was in awe.

"She is beautiful," Margaret replied. Her fears vanished as she looked at him looking at his daughter. Unlike most men, he knew right away it was a girl, and he was clearly besotted. Keen to encourage this new side to Archibald, she detached the baby from her breast. "Hold her," she said.

Archibald glanced up at Margaret. "She is hungry," he replied. There was no anger there, just concern that his daughter's feed might be interrupted. Nevertheless, he took her in his arms and cradled her close, still in tears, and smiled from ear to ear.

"Margaret," he said.

Margaret smiled. "Yes, dear?" she asked.

He leaned over carefully, and kissed her cheek. "No," he said, "that's her name. Margaret. After the beautiful lady who gifted me such a rare jewel."

Margaret smiled, but below the surface she was just confused. But Archie was happy, and she was happy. "Margaret Douglas," she replied, "will be perfect." She lay back against the fluffed pillows, and let herself doze off. She knew she could not leave him now. Maybe, just maybe, he really had changed.

* * *

All around the dinner table were quiet. Only the scrape of knife against plate could be heard. The King sat at the head of the table, on the lap of his Governess, and opposite him sat their new guest, Hal Stafford. Elizabeth Stafford made up the family, along with her father and Catherine, who were sat at opposite sides of the table. Their first family dinner, and Catherine had a big announcement to make. But the atmosphere was strangely tense.

She sat up in her seat, and drained the wine in her glass. "Well, isn't this nice?" she asked, glancing around at the others. Hal didn't even look up from his plate, despite that he was only picking at his meal, elbows on the table like an insolent child.

Edward smiled. "It's fine, Catherine," he assured her.

"Lovely; thank you, Your Grace," said Elizabeth, talking a little too over-brightly. She cast a dark look at her brother. "All is very pleasing, is it not, Hal?"

The boy let his knife fall to his plate. "Wonderful," he declared.

Catherine glanced up at Edward, and gave him a nod. "How has your day been?" he asked, "you have news?"

All eyes turned to her, making her flush. "I am with child," she announced.

There were a number of reactions. The King carried on eating; Elizabeth gasped, and Edward was on his feet and around the table, kissing her closely. But the sound of a chair scraping back against the floorboards caught all their attention. Hal was on his feet, looking thunderous. His mouth opened and closed again, seemingly rendered speechless. Catherine was about to ask if anything was wrong; Elizabeth looked like she didn't know what was happening, and Edward was simply dumbfounded by his eldest son's reaction.

"Hal?" he asked, "is anything the matter?"

For a moment, he stood there glaring at them. "If you excuse me," he finally blurted out, and turned away, striding from the chamber and let the door slam after him. In his wake, he left nothing but a stunned silence as his rapid footsteps receded down the outer-gallery.


	17. The End of the Beginning

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your input means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this.

**This fic has been separated into two parts, and this chapter is the final of part one, so I apologise if it is a little uneventful. However, I hope people enjoy. Reviews, as ever, would be most welcome. Thank you!**

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen: The End of the Beginning.**

Margaret felt strangely detached from the Christening. She was still being Churched – so the feeling wasn't entirely without cause. But she still felt as though the world was simply happening around her, while she powerlessly sat by and let it get on with it. Archibald seemed to have changed, so she let him. Her ladies thought she was mad to trust him, she did nothing to try and change their minds. Her bruises healed, and she decided he deserved a second chance. What more could be done?

After the ceremony, Archibald brought the baby straight back to her. The Christening robe was beautiful. More fitting for a Princess than a Countess. Little Maggie had behaved like an angel during the service, or so Archibald proudly informed her as he settled himself on the bed next to Margaret. With Maggie back in her arms, she felt complete again.

"I am so proud of you," she whispered to her daughter.

Archie kissed her head and put an arm around her shoulders. "You have every reason to be," he said, "she did us both proud."

They fell into a companionable silence, just watching their daughter drift off into a deep sleep after her long, adventurous morning. Once she was off, Margaret placed her carefully into the arms of her nursemaid, a girl selected from one of the local villages. "Thank you, Maisie," Margaret said. The nursemaid placed the infant in her great cradle, the same one that had been used for King James when he was an infant.

When they were alone, Archibald squeezed her shoulder. "I know things have been difficult for you," he said, ending the confession with a kiss. Margaret didn't want to rub his nose in it, so held her silence. "But things have changed; I have changed. Little Maggie has changed me. She is our number one, now. She is the sun and the moon to me, and you gave her to me. I can never thank you enough."

Margaret raised a pained smile. "Really?" she asked, her voice still hoarse from the delivery. "I want to believe you; I want this to be real, Archie-"

"And it will be."

She twisted her neck to look at him properly. He seemed sincere. He hadn't touched a drop of strong wine or ale since Maggie was born. He had been behaving impeccably towards her, too. He even apologised to his uncle who had, not so long ago, rebuked Archie publicly for his rash and unseemly behaviour. She wanted to believe it, but her rational heart was keeping her enthusiasm firmly in check. But, she wanted to make an effort. No one would accuse of her walking away from a marriage without even a fight.

"I want to help you," she said, pointedly not getting drawn into whether or not she believed him capable of change, "I will do all I can, I promise."

He gave her shoulder another squeeze. "So there will be no more talk of running away, then?" he asked. "Oh yes, I know about that, Margaret. I know everything you do."

She saw it briefly, that flash of anger in his pale blue eyes; that shadow cross his face. Her mouth ran dry with fear, even though she could see he was still on his best behaviour. "Of course not," she answered quietly, "I will make this work."

His lip curled into a smile. "I couldn't live without you, Margaret," he stated, "if you tried to take our Maggie away from me, I dread to think what I'd do."

Maybe it was hiss in his voice, or perhaps it was that look in his eye when he said those words that made the blood freeze in Margaret's veins. But now, she could see, the threat he carried had not vanished, it had just mutated into something else, something even darker. The baby cried in her cradle, awoken by something unheard by Margaret. When Archibald eased himself down off the bed and went to see what the matter was, Margaret's unease grew. He undoubtedly adored the child, but how he would use that love, she did not yet know.

* * *

Mary wept when London came into view as they sailed up the Thames on board the royal barge. A few days past, and she had wept when the white cliffs of Dover came into view, too. Now, all the familiar landmarks of her home had her emotions up and racing all over again. She hugged Charles tight, refusing to let go until it became time to disembark with her ladies, Anne and Mary, close behind her.

When they stepped ashore, Mary turned to face the ladies, with Charles at her side. She was becoming painfully aware that she only came up to Charles's shoulder.

"Anne and Mary," she said, beaming at them both, "I want to thank you for everything you have done for me; for Charles and me."

They both curtsied in tandem. "It was our pleasure, Your Grace. We both wish you long life, and eternal happiness." It was, unusually, Mary who spoke for them both.

Then Anne stepped forward. "Mary is right, the pleasure was ours, and it was an honour to know you."

The Boleyn sisters were returning to France, now. The moment of separation had come.

"If either of you return to your home here in England, or ever find yourselves at Court, please call on us," said Charles, who had already presented the girls with gifts prior to their departure. "Wherever we are, there is a bed and roof space for you both. We owe our happiness to you."

Even Anne, the more straight laced of the sisters, had a tear in her eye as they boarded the barge again, preparing to be taken back to Dover, and ultimately, France. They were off to join Claude's household. Mary and Charles watched them together, until the barge carrying the waving sisters was swallowed by the river mists. Alone again, they turned to face each other. "Welcome home, my own darling," said Charles, leaning down to kiss his bride again. He never got tired of kissing her, and now he wanted to take her home and spoil her with love and devotion all day long. When they drew apart again, they remained close, standing chest to chest (or as good as), and gazed lovingly into each others eyes. No words needed to be said, now. They knew they had done the right thing.

However, before they could retreat to Charles country home, Westhorpe, they had to go to London and face the Queen. A carriage was waiting for them on the quay. They held each other's hands, and prepared to make the final leg of their journey together, alone at last.

* * *

The wedding was brief – just as Harry and Gertrude wanted it. Vows spoken and rings exchanged with an hour. All done and dusted by noon, they sat down to a light luncheon with their families in the hall of a manor house that was owned by Sir John Blount, Gertrude's father. They hadn't had time to speak at all since their betrothal, several weeks ago. Even now, they had to sit side by side at the head of the table together and accept their wedding gifts and the congratulations of half-remembered relatives they had not seen since they were five years old. Everyone else was demanding their time, leaving them none in which they could become acquainted with one another,

Gertrude's father delivered an emotional speech, followed by Harry's sister, Margaret (who acted as a maid of honour). When she was done, Harry leaned over to his new wife. "We have an engagement with Queen Catherine this evening," he informed her, "I hope you don't mind. Her timing is terrible, and we have no real choice."

"The Queen?" she asked, sounding rather awestruck.

Harry laughed. "Don't worry," he said, "you'll get used to it. She is a great friend to my family, and she has asked me to teach the King his swordsmanship."

Gertrude was clearly impressed. "I'd be honoured to accompany you. Do you want me there?"

"You are my wife!" clearly, he wasn't the only one having trouble adapting to their new situation in life.

"Gertrude, look," he said, reaching out and giving her hand a squeeze, "do you want to sit here for the next three hours or shall we go out together, just the two of us, and have some fun?"

Gertrude turned her face back to the families, and then back to Harry with an impish smile on her face. "Come on," she said, giving his hand a tug, "let's do it!"

Harry returned the grin, and sprang to his feet. He tapped the flute of his glass with his fork, getting their attention. "Ladies and Gentlemen," he addressed them all confidently, "my wife and I would like to take this opportunity to thank you all for coming here today. We cannot begin to express our gratitude. However, duty calls us, and we must away to Richmond immediately; her majesty is expecting us."

A brief murmur of discontent rippled through the small wedding party. But Gertrude also got to her feet, and gave a small shrug of an apology. "It pains us sorely to have to leave," she said, "but my lord husband needs me by his side, and away we must."

They stood side by side; hand in hand, with identical grins on their faces. Harry's mother gave a nod of assent and a wink, as if to say she knew what they were really up to with their sneaking off. After hasty fare wells, they were out of the door and standing in the London streets, the city at their feet. All around them was a riot of activity and noise, the world bustling on as they stood and watched in wonder.

"Well then," he said, kissing her cheek, "where to first?"

Gertrude turned to face him again. "Wherever our feet take us," she said.

He looked back at her, and linked his arm through hers. Together, they began to run, dodging the crowds and upturning a cart by accident. The shouts and oaths of the owner trailed in their wake as they ran riot into their new life.

* * *

Maria de Salinas appeared in the royal apartments at eight pm precisely. "Your Grace," she said, looking towards Catherine. "The first guests have arrived."

Catherine set down the book she was reading, and gave Edward a nudge to wake him up. "They're early," she observed, "who is it?"

Maria smiled. "It is Princess Mary and her husband, Sir Charles Brandon."

Edward snapped wide awake in a trice, and Catherine leapt to her feet. She and Mary had parted, almost a year passed, on very bad terms. A meeting that had haunted Catherine ever since. "Very good," she said, and looked to Edward. "Shall we?"

"I think we will," he replied, getting to his feet and linking his arm through hers.

Together, they made their way to the Great Hall. This wing of the Palace had been cleared for the night – a Royal Family only function. Inside, all the trestle tables had been taken away to be replaced by a grand, highly polished, oak table. A cloth of fine point work was spread across the surface, and was set with gold plate. There were Venetian glasses, instead of the grimy pewter goblets that the guests were usually lumped with. Inside, also, were Mary and Charles.

Mary spotted Catherine and Edward first, and dropped into a deep curtsey. "Your Grace," she addressed them. Her voice alerted Charles, who turned from his place by the fire, and bowed low.

Catherine and Edward paused. "Rise," she said, "and welcome home, sister."

Mary got up, and looked at Catherine clearly. There was no anger left. No animosity lingering. Just two sisters back in each other's company after a long, enforced, absence. Mary trembled all the same.

Catherine frowned. "You could have at least invited me to the wedding," she mock scolded.

Mary's shoulders lurched up as she giggled, and rushed over to Catherine and embraced her warmly. Meanwhile, Edward let them have a moment together, and crossed the room to where Charles still lurked like a schoolboy in disgrace. He saw Edward approach, and dropped into another bow.

"Oh don't," Edward waved dismissively, "get up, man."

Charles did so. "I heard we wrecked your wedding day."

Edward snorted with laughter. "Don't be silly," he chided, "it would have taken more than a rash fool like you to wreck our perfect day."

Charles averted his gaze, as though he was still in the wrong. "I guess I have you to thank for talking the Queen around?"

"Actually, no," he replied, "you have Wolsey to thank for that. At the time, I wanted to skin you alive. Don't get me wrong, Charles. I did speak with Cate after wards. But really, it was Wolsey who talked her around out of a fondness for the late King. You were a valued friend to old Henry, and Wolsey remembered that."

It was rather dark in the Great Hall, and Edward had to squint through the gloom to see Charles properly. His expression was bemused. "I must thank the Bishop of York," he eventually said, "I thought he hated me!"

Edward let out a great sigh. "That's not all," he said. "Let's not beat about the bush: she's a Princess and you're ..." his sentence trailed off as he tried, and failed, to think of a more tactful way to phrase it. "well, you're a nobody."

"Thanks for reminding me!" Charles, to his credit, was genuinely amused at Buckingham's description of him.

"Well, now you've got a county to your name," Edward added, turning serious.

Charles laughter stopped abruptly. "You what?"

"Catherine has agreed to ennoble you," Edward clarified. "You are the new Duke of Suffolk."

Edward's eyes widened; his jaw hit his chest. "Me?" he asked, dumbly. Then, he laughed loudly. "You old rogue, Buckingham. Stop having me on!"

The women ceased their chatter, and turned to look at them. Edward turned to Catherine and shrugged. "He thinks I'm joking."

Charles stopped, and looked from one face to the other. "You mean it?" he asked, suddenly very quiet, "I really am going to be Duke of Suffolk."

Catherine thought a well placed blow with a feather would have knocked poor Charles over at that moment. "Believe it, Charles," she said, prompting a fit of laughter from Mary as she rushed over to hug him.

"Well, that's jolly good news, isn't it?" he said, still in a state of shock.

The silence that followed was a comfortable one, even if it was disrupted by the sound of two sets of running footsteps growing ever louder, from outside the door. Seconds later, the door was flung open, casting a long yellow beam of light from outside to punctuate the gloom still inside the Hall. Harry and Gertrude Courtenay stood flushed and breathless on the threshold. They both crashed to a skidding halt at the sight of the other four people already in there, and the smile suddenly died on Harry's face. "Forgive us," he blustered, "I thought we were late."

"You are!" Catherine pointed out, but not unkindly. "Come on in, both of you."

Harry and Gertrude exchanged a glance, and continued at a more sedate pace to the place at the table. Behind them came the servants to light the candles. It was almost time. Then, Lady Margaret Pole appeared with King Henry by the hand. She curtseyed to the Queen, and then gave her a more familiar peck on the cheek.

"Wonderful to see you, Margaret," said Catherine, "and lovely of you to join us, it's been too long."

Margaret and Catherine got the King seated at the head of the table on an especially raised seat. It was going to be a late night for the boy, but he had just been awoken from a nap. Catherine had confidence that he would get through it. Then, once Henry was seated, Hal Satfford, accompanied by his sister, Elizabeth, and her husband, Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, arrived. Hal was still disconcertingly sullen, and barely spoken a word to Catherine since he arrived. But, he would keep, Catherine thought.

Princess Mary; Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk; Elizabeth and Thomas Howard; Harry and Gertrude Courtenay; Catherine and Edward, along with the King, and finally, Lady Margaret Pole. The family was complete. The room awash with fire and candlelight, the first course of the meal was brought out, and the guests took their places, seated according to their rank. Catherine looked at them each in turn. Hal was still insolent, glaring contemptuously at the King and his own sister. But everyone else was happy. Catherine was, too. The only person missing was Margaret, Queen of Scots. Her place was empty, but Catherine still thought of her.

"It is a pleasure to have you all here, today," she said, just before they began to eat. "May I take this opportunity to welcome some new additions to our family. First, is my own darling son, His Majesty, King Henry IX. Then, there is our new brother, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. A title to which, I am sure, he will soon become accustomed-" she broke off, and gave a still shocked Charles a nod of approval. "And finally, there is the newest addition of all. Our new cousin, Lady Gertrude Courtenay, Marchioness of Exeter. May we please raise our glasses and welcome them all."

Each person present at the table, even the ever recalcitrant Hal, raised their glasses, now full of golden wine, and drank a toast of welcome. When peace was restored, and glasses set back down, Catherine continued:

"Before we go on, I would like to take a moment to honour those who, for whatever reason, could not be here with us today. Our sister, Margaret Queen of Scots, and her undoubtedly beautiful new daughter, Lady Margaret Douglas. One day, I have faith and pray to God daily, that we will all be reunited around this table again one day."

Catherine paused again, allowing the army of servants to refill the glasses, and another toast was drunk to Margaret and her daughter. Then, Catherine, still on her feet, got to the real message:

"Ten years ago today, a Coronation took place," she said, and occupants of the room quickly settled into silence once more, their expressions taking on a hint of sadness. "If someone then had told me all that would happen in the next ten years, I would never have believed them. Nor would I have believed that all we have achieved together since then would have been possible. But it was possible, because together, we made it work. When my husband died, almost six years ago, I secretly believed that we were on the brink of ruin. I panicked; I made hasty alliances and feared where maybe I had no reason to fear. But we weathered the storm together, as a united family. We made sacrifices, but we carried that weight together. So, finally, the King and I would like to raise a toast to all of you, for getting us this far!"

The third, and final, toast done, Catherine sat back down and the servants appeared with the first course of the family meal. It was only right that they should celebrate steering the country through the last five or six turbulent years, but she knows, too, that there is still a long way to go. But for one night only, she was contented with the proximity of all her loved ones. Her real family.

* * *

End of Part One.


	18. Baby Steps

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, favourited and alerted this story – your support means a lot to me, so thanks! The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this.

**This chapter is set ten years after the last. The year is 1528. Henry IX is approaching his sixteenth birthday. He has also been joined by a sister, Mary (9), and a brother, Richard (5). I hope this isn't too off-putting. **

Please read and review, thank you.

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen: Baby Steps.**

Belly down, King Henry landed with a dirty, wet splash in the rain-churned courtyard of Windsor Castle. He gasped as the wind was knocked out of his lungs, and rolled over on to his back to see Harry Courtenay smirking victoriously down at him. Angered, Henry turned his eyes to the right, where he had dropped the sword that once belonged to his father, just out of reach. He looked back up at his Cousin as thought to admit defeat, but he wasn't out yet. He strained his right arm, grasped the hilt of his sword, and sprang back to his feet. His whole body now throbbed; pulsing in time to the racing beat of his heart. He was soaked, dirty and exhausted. But, no, he wasn't out yet.

He screwed up his rapidly ebbing strength and raised his sword and lunged forwards with all the speed and stamina he could muster. Harry didn't even try to block him; he just deftly stepped aside, taking more care to dodge another puddle than to block the attack, and Henry ended up staggering, grabbing onto the wooden stand post to prevent himself from falling over again. He took a moment to catch his breath and glanced over his shoulder. Harry had barely broken a sweat. It was just the incessant rain that drenched him, and he still had that infuriating smile on his face; like it was all so easy.

It was hopeless. But something deep inside drove him onwards. He straightened up, gripped the hilt of his sword with both hands, and the two of them met in combat once more. The blades of their swords crashed against one another, sending bright orange sparks shooting up into the darkening skies of London. Harry's expression was of grim determination now, and Henry dared to hope he was finally getting somewhere. He blocked one of his cousin's lunges, and parried another blow. He raised the sword high, and brought it slashing downwards, where it was blocked by Harry Courtenay with equal force. They seemed locked, their blades grinding into one another as they circled around each other, no one breaking the combatant deadlock they found themselves in.

Then, once they turned in a full circle, Harry shoved forwards as hard as he could, sending King Henry sprawling back in the mud. The breath knocked from his lungs again, he gasped, gazing up at the skies. Finally, his view was blocked by Harry Courtenay's sword arm as his cousin brought his blade crashing down in the boggy mud just below his armpit.

He looked down dispassionately at the King. "You're dead, Cousin."

King Henry couldn't speak. He gulped at the air, blinking the falling rain from his eyes, and lay prostrate and thoroughly defeated at his Cousin's feet like one of his sister's discarded rag dolls.

Harry sighed, and extended a hand. "Come on, son," he said, reaching down to give the poor boy a hand getting back on his feet. Luckily, he was not armoured, and the task of hauling him up was not so difficult. The boy King looked dazed. "Maybe you're right; maybe I'm quite ready just yet."

"So, there'll be no more talk of battles, then?" Harry asked with a dry laugh, and led the way back to the shelter of the stands. His wife, Gertrude, was waiting there for him, clutching the hand of their five year old son, Edward. Her eyes were wide with fear, but Edward was straining at her hand, itching to run up to his father.

The four of them sat together in the stands. The other three politely watching the rain come tumbling down while Henry got his wits back.

"That was harsh!" he whined, letting his sword fall at his side.

Gertrude was sympathetic, though. "You'll learn, Your Grace. Won't he, Harry?"

Edward was hopping with excitement. "You run 'im through, Papa!"

"Edward! That is not a nice thing to say!" Gertrude scolded, "Papa will do it to you, one day, and you'll see how very hard it is."

Harry leaned forwards to scoop his son up, and sat him on his knee. "You're mother's right-"

"No," said Henry, petulantly, "he's right. I was useless out there. If that were a real battle then I'd have been dead ten times over."

Gertrude looked as though she were about to say something to make the King feel better; some soft, well intended, lies. But Harry pressed a finger to his lips, and handed Edward back to her with a kiss for them both. "Meet me in our apartments in an hour," he said, "instruct Jane to have a bath ready for me."

With that, he tugged the King's elbow. "Come on, son," he urged him.

Henry obeyed, and followed his cousin down from the stands, back out into the pouring rain for a fresh soaking, dragging his sword behind him. For one horrifying moment he thought he was being marched back out to the courtyard for another sound beating. But, he wasn't. They walked in silence to the back door of the castle, and in through the kitchens. From being out in the cold, driving rain, the warmth enveloped them both like a blanket. Something Henry was grateful for beyond measure. Harry sat him down at a trestle table, and chivvied the servants and kitchen hands out of the way so they could talk privately.

Before that, however, Harry filled an earthenware bowl with water that was warming on a nearby stove, and washed himself as best he could before handing over to Henry. "Get yourself washed; I'll fix us both some supper."

Supper consisted of fresh baked wheaten bread, newly churned butter and generous amounts of honey. Henry knew the cook would be furious when he found out his stores had been plundered, but being King had its benefits. He thanked his cousin, and ate ravenously. Harry, however, set his plate aside for a moment.

He looked thoughtful. "Look, Henry," he said, getting the King's attention. "I know you want to make an impression. It's only natural. But, dragging your country into war with Scotland on a whim is not the way to go about winning hearts and minds."

Henry put down his heel of bread for a moment, his expression was sullen. "It's not a whim, they're raiding our border towns. And, when you were my age you were fighting in France," he pointed out. "What better way to tell the world I have arrived than military victory? If my father were here-"

"Why is your father not here, Henry?" Harry cut across him firmly. "You're right: when I was your age, I was fighting in France. That's where I saw your father die. He left this world far too soon, and you were fatherless before you were even born. All because of war. There's no glory there, boy. I don't tell you this out of badness, but honesty. I would be a disservice to you and your father if I didn't warn you in the strongest manner possible."

Henry was not about to give up, though. He had every ounce of his father's stubbornness. "My father was tricked and murdered by the French-"

"Henry!" Harry cut him off firmly, again. "Your father died in battle. That tactic is just another trick of the trade. They'd do the same, and more, to you. They won't back off just because you're King-"

"I'm not asking them to!" he cried back, getting angry and frustrated. "I never ask for special treatment just because I'm King."

To his credit, it was only truth. "The thing is, Henry, it's not just you going into battle, is it?" replied Harry, tacking another route. "You're asking other men to die for you. Sons, brothers, and fathers all. I don't think you appreciate that, and I don't believe you to be capable of leading an army, yet. Now don't compare yourself to me; I was no boy general. Your father kept me on a tight leash in France: he made sure I was in bed by nine every evening, and I was under threat of a hiding if I dared gainsay the generals, even your uncle Charles, and he was just a humble squire at the time. You will be different; you will be expected to lead."

Henry was laughing, now. "Really?" he asked, eyebrow raised. "Father was that strict with you?"

The memory rushed back to Harry. The ribbing he got from the others was terrible. "Absolutely," he replied, "and if he could hear the way you're talking now, no doubt he'd do the same to you. He never met you, but he would have moved heaven and earth to protect you. Now, I must do that for him."

Henry's face fell again, and he took to swirling the contents of his goblet of mead around, staring listlessly at it. "I just want people to take me seriously," he quietly confessed, his shoulders sagged in defeat. "I may be King, but really I'm just a silly boy to them."

It would have taken a heart of stone not to feel for him. Harry paused, picking a little more at his food, and thinking carefully. "Sometimes," he finally said, "it takes a bigger man to walk away from a fight."

Henry looked curiously at his Cousin, now. "How so?"

"There's always war. One war leads to another, or so it seems to me. Look at the bigger picture, here. Violence doesn't really solve anything, does it?" he answered. "Look, your day will come, and you will be a great soldier. But that day is still distant, and you have a lot to learn. Now, Gertie will be wondering where I've got to, and your mother will start to fret if you're not back soon. But think about what I've said to you today, and go talk to the Cardinal. He's a wise man, and his proposed peace conference might be the making of you."

Henry wolfed down the last of his supper, but was already deep in thought over what Harry had suggested to him. Before they went their separate ways, Harry pulled him into a hug, and squeezed him. It was certainly a lot better than being beaten about the Courtyard in the pouring down rain with a sword in his aching hands.

* * *

The little girl watched from the window as King Henry left the kitchens, and crossed the quadrangle of the castle. She saw it was him, and her face lit up in a smile that made her sapphire eyes dance. She glanced over her shoulder, to where her mother sat stitching shirts for her brothers. "Henry's coming home now, Mama," she chimed, "he's got dirty again," she added, disapprovingly.

Catherine, the Queen Mother, set down her needlework, and returned her daughter's smile. "Shall we go and meet him, Mary?" she asked, rising to her feet and extending a hand towards the child. It was good to see the girl smile; she hadn't done much of it since her father left for Scotland almost one month ago. He had gone to repel the raiders.

Mary hopped down from her window ledge, and clasped Catherine's hand. "Yes! Let's surprise him. Where is Dickon, though?"

Richard, or Dickon, as his family called him, was Catherine and Edward's youngest child. "It's past his bedtime, Mary. Lady Salisbury has taken him away already," Catherine explained as she led Mary out of the privy chamber, and into the outer-galleries where Henry had just materialised. She sighed deeply as she took in the sorry state of her son. Practise, it seemed, had not gone well. His clothes and hair were wet and dirty, and his shirt was ripped. However, he looked up and saw them both, and a smile lit up his bruised, muddy, face.

Henry dropped to his knees with his arms open wide. "Sister!" he called to Mary, who was in his dirty, wet, arms like a shot, before Catherine could even open her mouth to protest. She groaned as Henry hugged the dirt into Mary's beautiful, hand made, silk gown. When he kissed her cheek, the mud from his chin rubbed off on her face.

"Boys!" she sighed as great drops of rain dripped from his blond curls and on to Mary's formerly clean skirts.

After a moment, Henry lifted his sister up and balanced her on his hip. "Where's the rat?" he asked, referring to his brother.

Catherine scowled. "You mean: 'where is my dear brother, Richard?" she corrected him. "Or, do you mean Hal, in which case you were right the first time."

Henry laughed as he closed the gap between he and his mother. "I don't give a flying fig where Hal is," he retorted, finally letting Mary down again. "Sister," he said quietly to her, "go find our Dickon, and give him a dig in the head with a pillow from me. I must speak with mama alone, now."

Catherine started, and gave him a clip round the ear. "Mary," she said, firmly, "you'll do no such thing. Go and sit quietly in the solar until we get back; better still, wash your face."

Mary giggled. "Yes, Ma'ma," she replied, curtseying sweetly to them before dashing back down the gallery to their private quarters. To Catherine's dismay, Mary then spat on her sleeve and swiped it down the side of her face. "That better?" she asked, the picture of innocence. Catherine didn't answer, she just inwardly sighed a sigh of defeat.

Once they were alone again, Henry turned serious and sat down by the window. "Harry Courtenay gave me a hard time in the Courtyard," he said, a little embarrassed, "and an even harder talking to afterwards."

Catherine reached out and caressed his cheek. "It's nothing to be ashamed of," she said, speaking softly. "He has much more experience than you-"

"It's not that," he said, "but something else he said. He said, sometimes it takes a bigger man to walk away from a fight."

This was about Scotland, again. The ever present thorn in England's side. Henry threw himself down into the window seat and looked up at her desperately. "He's right, Mother, I can't take them on yet, so how do we keep them at bay? Before you say anything, I know all about the raids on our border towns. I heard the Earl of Northumberland talking about it to his fiancé. And please, don't ask me to send other's out to fight my battles for me. Aunt Mary is worried sick about Charles, and it kills me to see her so upset."

Catherine sat down opposite him, and took a deep breath. "This conference really is our best chance," she answered, but Henry rolled his eyes. "No, son, listen. We call the conference; negotiate and play for time. We get concessions, and if they break their terms, they'll not just have you to answer to, but the Emperor who is your Cousin, and his holiness, the Pope. That's how it goes."

Henry was thoughtful. "What if His Holiness just laughs at me?," he asked, "I feel stupid asking for his help. As for the Emperor? He must think me weak and stupid if I can't govern my own small Kingdom when he has huge swathes of Europe to manage, and he's only a few years old then me-"

Catherine caught hold oh his wrists. "Henry, stop!" she firmly commanded. "Remember what I said: baby steps. You're throwing yourself into the Government of this nation feet first, when you should be taking small steps, one at a time. No one, not even Charles, not even your own father, did everything all at once. Everyone had help: from the Pope, and from their allies. That is what they're for. Even when you're an adult, you will still need their help."

He had been doing well. With the help of Sir Thomas More, Henry had written a formal rebuke of Martin Luther, and had been sufficiently proud of the results enough to consent to its publication and presentation to the Holy Father himself. The praise he received from the Pope bolstered his confidence. Then, Luther's riposte, full of lucid, colourful, insults directed at the "infant" King, had set him back, dinted his new confidence and made him thrice shy.

More than anything, Catherine wanted to step in and do it all for him; bear the weight of the yoke of State and government. But his Tutors were right: Henry needed to learn how to Govern on his own; she had to let him fall, and watch as he picked himself back up again. But being an idle spectator was tearing at her heart. It was clear that Harry Courtenay had dashed the boy's hopes of a martial victory, and he had not yet got the confidence to carry out a peace mission. It was clear that a fall was the least of it, he needed to be pushed.

"Henry," she said, speaking softly, "you know this is the right thing. Meet with King James and his Counsel, and talk this out. No more violence, and a nice peace treaty to seal it," she explained, relieved to see that he had calmed down and relaxed. As an afterthought, she added: "Make sure you invite your Aunt Margaret along."

* * *

Queen Margaret sat back in her seat and watched her daughter closely. Maggie had just turned ten, but from her learning, anyone would think her sixteen or seventeen. She was stood, at that moment, on a dais in the Great Hall of Linlithgow Palace, reading Latin translations of Ovid's verses. Her diction was clear, her vocabulary flawless. She was every inch a Tudor Princess. More so with that flowing flame red hair, and pale, alabaster skin. Her eyes were of the brightest blue, too. There was none of her father in her. He had merely planted the seed of her in Margaret's belly. But from way Angus talked, anyone would think he created her alone.

Angus, at that moment, was sat beside Margaret. They had survived these last ten years, but only just. Whenever Maggie was around, they papered over the cracks in their relationship and pretended everything was normal. But, as soon as she was back with her Governess, the rows and fights would begin again. She found herself making excuses for the bruises and the busted lips she often had. She was the Queen who walked into doors.

Maggie completed her verse, and curtseyed gracefully to the small crowd to a round of rapturous applause. Then, she bounded down from the dais, and into the arms of her father. They hugged tight, and he showered her with kisses before leading her over to their seat in time for the rest of the play to continue.

"You were wonderful, darling," said Margaret as Maggie sat down between her and Archie.

"Thank you, Mama," replied Maggie, leaning up and planting a kiss on her mother's cheek.

When she pulled away, she frowned. "What is that mark?" she asked, pointing to the same spot on her own face, near her cheekbone. Archie shot Margaret a warning look from behind Maggie.

Margaret's smile froze on her face. "It's nothing," she said, but pulled a lock of hair over the spot anyway, and turned away to block any further questions. It was by the grace of God that Maggie had no idea of how bad her parents marriage really was.

Just as she was settling back down to watch the rest of the performance, a tap came on her shoulder. She turned to find Lady Aislin Lennox looking down at her. "Urgent message for your grace," she whispered in Margaret's ear, but loud enough for Archibald to hear. They were in public now, so there was also nothing he could do to stop his wife escaping his clutches. So, Margaret apologised to the people in the row of seats behind her as she momentarily blocked their view of the stage, and followed Aislin out of the Great Hall. As soon as they were outside, they broke into a run, all the way back to Margaret's privy chamber, which was still separate from Archie's, to her relief.

There was just Aislin and Margaret there; everyone else was watching the play. They were alone, and going by the look in Aislin's eyes, she had news.

"Have you got anything for me?" Margaret asked as Aislin busied herself with pouring wine.

"Have I ever!" she replied, and handed over a letter with the goblet. "Read this, quick, so I can put it back."

Margaret snatched up the letter and ignored the wine for the time being. She noted that the seal had already been broken, meaning Archie already knew its contents. Margaret read speedily.

"King Henry of England is enquiring about the possibility of a peace conference," she read aloud, and her heart pained for the nephew she had never met. She wondered if he was like her little brother, so many years dead. She ached for her family; now more than ever she did when she first left them.

She put the letter down, now lost in thought. But, Aislin had more. She reached into the pocket of her cloak, and pulled out a stack of letters. Some were so old they had a thick layer of dust coating them. "I found these in the secret office you told me about," explained Aislin, "some of these are just a few months old, but you need to see them all, even the ones that are a decade old."

Margaret rifled through them, noting the royal seal attached to them all. "James," she whispered. Her son had been sending letters; letters no one had passed to her. She picked one at random, and read it out loud:

"Mine own dear mother," she began, and stopped as she began to choke on her own emotions. "I heartily commend me unto you, and pray this letter finds you well and in good spirits. I would that I knew why you no longer write to me, even just to tell me how I have displeased your grace? -"

Margaret had to stop again. Her heart was breaking, her eyes swam with tears that burned; it was too much for her to bear. She had not written back to her son, because her husband had hidden his letters. She simply hadn't known about them.

"There are hundreds of these letters," said Aislin, "he's lied to you; he's beaten you, and he's stolen your son from you."

Margaret frowned, her eyes fixed on her feet. She remained silent for a long time, seemingly unaware of the tears that continued to drip down her face. Eventually, she said: "I could kill him; in his sleep. It would be easy."

Aislin dropped to her knees in front of Margaret. "No, you have acted rashly before, and got nowhere," she said, "we must get Maggie, and get as far from here as possible. No more, Your Grace. Please. Be calm, and we can win this time."

Margaret's mind whirled. Of all the blows Archie had dealt her, this was the lowest. She rifled through more of her son's letters, all of them begging her to come and visit him, later ones pleading to know why she was angry with him, because why else would she ignore him. Like all children, he blamed himself for her silence. Murder was never going to be her style, but Aislin was correct, it was time for action. But, out of the chaos of her thoughts, a plan was already forming.

"Aislin, write to the Counsel of my son, and inform them of what has happened, and that we fully support the peace conference between England and Scotland, and make sure that my Tudor seal is attached, not the Douglas one," she instructed. "Then, write to Queen Catherine and my nephew, offer them my support for the conference, and make sure they know that, if it happens, I will be there with Maggie."

The point at which Margaret could sneak off in the middle of the night was long gone. Besides, Archibald Douglas was going to have to pay for his crimes against her, now. Her plan was not complete, and she didn't know how she would bring it to pass. But the final straw had landed, and her back was broken. Her relationship with James would be broken by now, through little fault of her own. Her fear of Archibald Douglas was crystallising into a pure, solid, hatred.

Aislin paused half-way out of the door. "Your Grace, I am still writing to Harry Courtenay," she said. Her husband, the Earl of Lennox, knew but barely cared what she did. "I can inform him directly, and action will be taken."

Margaret looked up from the letters she was reading. "Yes," she agreed, "tell him everything; tell him to make sure this peace conference happens. I want an audience for what I'm going to do."

Aislin left to write the letters. She had a servant from Ireland who could be trusted to get the letters to London and to the King of Scots. Alone again, Margaret looked down at King James' letters. All these years she had been lied to; it hurt more than any physical blow ever could. But for now, her daughter was alone with that monster. For the time being, everything would have to continue as normal. She got up; dried her tears, and smoothed out her skirts. It was time to paint the smile back on, and go back to the Hall.

* * *

Sleepless and restless, Harry tossed and turned all night. Gertrude lay with her back to him, her breathing steady as she slept on, oblivious to her husband's turmoil. He turned to look at her, the glowing embers of the fire made her skin look translucent. He sat up, careful not to upset the feather mattress and wake her, and after kissing her gently, eased himself out of bed. Aislin's last letter was still sitting on his writing desk, open where he left it. It was not signed with her name, just the unique seal he gave to her all those years ago.

He read it again, holding it up to the light of the moon. Even after all these years they kept in touch, and not just so that Aislin could keep him informed of the Earl of Douglas's latest tyrannies against his cousin, Margaret. Naturally, after the passage of so many years, they no longer loved each other, they just loved the memory of each other.

He was about to put the letter away, when soft footsteps sounded from their bedroom. Gertrude appeared dressed in her night rail, and no cloak. She was standing before the open window, the moonlight shining right through her garment, showing the contours of her lean, slender shape. Despite their best efforts, God had only gifted them one child, so she still had the figure of a girl half her age.

"Did I wake you?" he asked, "I tried not to disturb you."

Gertrude didn't answer. "It's from her, isn't it?" she asked, nodded at the letter in his hands.

A pang of guilt bit at him. "I thought you knew about the letters?"

She halted right in front of him, openly staring at his bare chest, and kissed him. "Do you think that makes it any easier?" she asked.

For the first time since their marriage, Harry could see the sadness in her eyes. "Gertie," he said, cupping her face in his hands, "what we have; what we've achieved together is so much more than a boyhood passion. Surely you realise that? What's brought this on?"

Gertrude rested her cheek against his breast as he wrapped his arms around her. "Because when this peace conference happens, you will be reunited with her," she replied, her voice barely a whisper, shaking with suppressed emotions. "When we married, I told you all I wanted was a child. But then I fell in love with you. I tried not to, because I knew your heart belonged to another-"

"Gertie, hush! My heart is my own, and I gift it to you."

She looked at him, her blue eyes silver in the moonlight, and smiled again. Harry breathed a sigh of relief and kissed her cheek as he held her close. But, deep down inside, and this was the real reason sleep eluded him that night, he knew he would know how he'd react to seeing Aislin again. He knew that she was married in name, but not in deed. He knew that she would be there, when the conference happened, and he knew that seeing her again was inevitable.


	19. Going Nowhere

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story; your input means a lot, so thank you again. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this, beside my few fictional characters.

Please read and review, thank you.

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen: Going Nowhere.**

The clock struck eleven, drawing the attention of the ministers sat around the Counsel table. Hal Stafford, brooding darkly at the left of Queen Catherine sighed deeply. "If the King doesn't grace us with his presence shortly, I suggest we begin without him. I do have other business to attend to."

Catherine raised an eyebrow, a look of incredulity. "Business more important than the King's?"

Stafford's reply was cut off by a murmur of support for the Queen Mother, and he was cowed into silence. His gaze darted from Catherine, and back to the plans laid out on the table in front of them. A large map of the British Isles with dotted lines in red ink criss-crossing the landmass, notes in a hasty secretary's hand scrawled in the margins, and a circle in black around the entire county of Northumberland. That was where the fateful meeting between the Kings of England and Scotland was scheduled to take place.

Finally, heavy footsteps could be heard approaching the counsel chamber from outside, and seconds later, Henry appeared. Breathless and dishevelled, he acknowledged the bows and greetings that he was met with, and took his seat with a stifled yawn and a muttered apology. As he settled himself down at Catherine's right hand side at the head of the table, she delivered firm kick to his leg under the table. "Late!" she hissed low from the corner of her mouth at him, "explain yourself."

He flushed deeply, and stifled another yawn. "Forgive my tardiness, My Lords, I was detained late this morning. It won't happen again, I assure you," he said, addressing the room at large. "Now: down to business. I believe my Cousin, James, has agreed to meet with us, and that my Lord of Northumberland has agreed to give up his home to accommodate us all?"

From the far end of the long, mahogany table, Henry Percy acknowledged the King. "This is correct, Your Grace. Alnwick Castle is at your disposal for as long as you need."

Henry glanced across at his mother, who gave him a nod, a silent gesture of reassurance. "Thank you," he replied to Northumberland, the turned his attention to Cardinal Wolsey: "Your Grace, you can write back to King James and inform him that I agree to his conditions, and look forward to our meeting with great anticipation."

Wolsey nodded. "That settles it," he said, getting to his feet and producing several large documents from a sheaf. "All we need is your majesty's signature, and Counsel dismissed."

Not wanting to hold them up any longer, Henry scrawled his signature wherever Wolsey pointed without reading the papers through. The whole process took a matter of minutes; the fate of two nations changed at the stroke of a pen; no blood, just the ink drying on a sheet of parchment. Henry set down the quill, and immediately his Counsellors rose to leave. Hal Stafford was the first out, his lean, black clad form vanishing in an instant. The King couldn't help but wonder where it was he went. But, as he himself got up to leave, his mother placed a hand on his arm. "Stay behind," she instructed him, and tugged him back into his seat.

He took a deep breath, expecting a scolding for being so late to the meeting. But when he looked down the table, he saw that both Harry Courtenay, the Cardinal and the Earl of Northumberland had also remained behind. He looked up at his mother again, but her expression gave nothing away. She looked resolutely ahead, still with her hands folded neatly in front of her.

As soon as the door closed behind the last man, and Wolsey had finished clearing away the papers that lined the tabletop, Harry Courtenay reached into his bag, and slid another letter onto the table. Henry noticed that it bore no signature, just a seal he had not seen before.

"This is a letter from my informant inside the Scottish Court," Harry explained to them. "Both she; the Queen of Scots, and Lady Margaret Douglas will be present at the conference."

Henry was confused. "Because I invited them," he explained in a hurry, "I thought it was the right thing to do; should I not have done so?."

Catherine squeezed his arm, silencing him. "Henry you've done nothing wrong," she was quick to reassure him. "But something has come to light, and we all must be clear on what's happening. Your aunt needs our help."

"Urgently," Harry chipped in, emphasising the point.

Wolsey looked over his steepled fingers in the King's direction. "We knew what Angus was doing, but unless Margaret asked for our help directly there was nothing we could do. Well, now she's asking. She, her maid, and her daughter are all seeking sanctuary in England. In this Court."

Henry was still puzzled. "I don't see what the problem is," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "This is my family and they don't even need to ask for sanctuary. We give it freely; especially as my poor aunt has suffered so much at this creature's hands. In fact, I have half a mind to send troops to Scotland and have them escorted out of that place immediately."

"No, Henry, you mustn't do that," Catherine interjected. "As tempting as it is, we must wait until the conference. If we send our troops into Scottish territory before this conference, it would be seen as an act of aggression. It would undermine you before you even get there."

Henry Percy had been watching the proceedings in a thoughtful silence. But now, he waded in with a suggestion of his own. "Your Graces, I have men already stationed on the Scots border. If Queen Margaret and her retinue can get that far, they will see that she makes it to Alnwick in safety, and once there she will have royal protection."

Catherine looked relieved. "Excellent suggestion. What say you, Henry?"

"I agree; I cannot thank you enough my lord of Northumberland. But, who will take care of her once she arrives at Alnwick? She will arrive there at least a month ahead of us?"

"My Gertie can go," Harry Courtenay said, "and me with her – if His Majesty can spare me."

"And my betrothed, Lady Anne Boleyn, can also go," added Percy. "She has served Queen Claude and Margaret of Austria, so is greatly qualified to care for the Queen and her daughter."

"I will send necessities; fabrics for clothes, plate – that sort of thing," Catherine said, adding her own contribution. "All she has to do is get herself and her daughter to the border in one piece."

Silence fell for a minute, until Wolsey brought the matter to a close. "Then we are satisfied," he stated. "Needless to say this matter is private, and only those who need to know will be informed, for the sake of the Queen's own dignity."

* * *

Even after everything that had happened, Margaret knew leaving Archibald would be difficult. She stood by the door of Maggies chamber, watching them play together. Neither of them noticed her there, they were lost in their own world, and she hated to intrude. She rapped on the already open door, and stepped in. Both of them turned sharply to face her – Maggie beamed and rushed up to hug her. Archie remained on the floor where the rag dolls had been set up for "lunch time", but for Margaret, Archie himself was the only thing on the menu. "Wife," he greeted her gruffly.

"The weather is too good to be indoors," Margaret told Maggie, "go and saddle the new horse your father bought you, and let's take her out for a ride."

The girls face lit up and thanked her mother profusely before rushing from the room.

"And tell them to have mine ready," she called after her, "I'm coming with you."

She didn't know if Maggie heard her, but now that she was alone with her husband, she had more pressing matters on her mind. She watched him rise to his feet, and all her former fear had gone now. Now that she knew where she was going, and what would happen when she got there, she found she had nothing left to fear. He knew, too, that something was afoot.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

Margaret didn't answer. She reached into the pocket of her cloak, and produced one of the letters from her son. His eye fell on the letter, recognition hitting home immediately. "How did you get that?" he asked. "How many times have I warned you about looking through my things-"

"Your things?" she retorted shrilly. "All those letters were addressed to me!"

His breathing became shallow, the first warning sign that he was loosing his temper. But Margaret was beyond caring now, she didn't care if she was provoking him.

"You are my wife," he reminded her, "you have no business keeping anything from me."

Margaret sighed. "You've got this all the wrong way round, Archibald. I haven't been keeping anything from you, you've been lying and cheating me for our whole marriage."

He was advancing on her now, but she responded by stepping up to meet him half way. His lip curled into a sneer. "And what're you going to do about it?" he asked, peering down at her through eyes narrowed, "run away again? Like you did last time? You won't get beyond that door."

He was right up in Margaret's face, but still she refused to back down; she wouldn't give an inch this time. "No," she replied, her tone even and her demeanour placid. "I'm not running away from you like a thief in the night. I am holding my head up high and leaving you, in plain view of the world. There is, you will find, a subtle difference." She accentuated her point with a curt nod.

She had said her piece, and looking him up and down, she found there was little else to say, little else to do in that place. She had nothing there, and there was nothing she recognised in him any more. She turned and walked away, and made it as far as the door before he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back. She wasn't surprised, so she didn't cry out. She never expected him to let her simply walk away, she was only prepared to front out the violence now because there was nothing left for him to do that could possibly hurt her any more than he already had. There couldn't be any new brutality to which he had not subjected her.

She found herself laughing mirthlessly as he threw her to the floor. "Are you going to kill me, Archie?"

He towered over her, oblivious, as yet, to the fact that she was simply no longer afraid of him. He had lost his power over her. But he was still doing his best to get it back, and landed a well aimed kick to her legs that made her grunt in pain. Margaret took a deep breath, and got back up.

"I'm not scared of you," she said, still calm, "I'm leaving you, now-"

"Oh, but you're not," he replied furiously, and his hands landed at her throat before she could even take a backwards step.

Margaret's pulse raced painfully, but she couldn't breathe and the pressure made her lungs swell in her chest. She desperately tried to prize his fingers away; lashed out with her feet, but he impervious to her kicking and his grip simply got tighter. Her head was spinning by the time he marched her backwards and pressed her up against the back wall and her throat felt like it was being crushed like an old tin can. Moments later, it seemed, and she had no strength left to kick him any more; she was dying. He really was killing her. All she could see was him, his face pressed close to hers.

"Bitch," he whispered almost seductively in her ear as she slipped unconscious, "you're going nowhere."

Inside, Margaret was panicking and utterly unable to do anything to physically relieve it. Tears burned her failing eyes, but just as her vision faded, someone screamed a piercing scream that filled the whole chamber. Archibald started, whipped around to the source of the noise and inadvertently dropped Margaret. She landed like a broken doll at his feet, gulping and gasping at the air like a fish out of water. Archibald froze, caught between murdering Margaret and staring transfixed at the third person who had entered. Margaret managed to turn her eyes to the door, and almost wept.

"Papa," Maggie sobbed, her face was stricken and pale. "What are you doing to Mama? You were killing her!"

Archibald was out of breath. "No, darling, your mother and I-"

"I know what I saw," Maggie retorted defiantly, "you were hurting Mama."

Enough was enough. Margaret grabbed a nearby table leg and hauled herself up. "Stop!" she gasped through her burning throat. "Maggie, go. Get horses." She could manage no more than simple, declarative sentences. But she wasn't going to stoop so low as to use her own daughter as a human shield.

Maggie, however, had other ideas. She marched past her father and helped her mother to her feet by slinging Margaret's arm around her shoulders and taking her weight. She sagged, and Margaret tried to make it easier by forcing her legs to bear most of her weight. Archie wouldn't dare attack in front of Maggie, and he would never raise a hand to her, either. But, his blood was up. "This isn't over," he hissed at her as they passed, "I'll hunt you down like the animal you are."

* * *

Aislin was waiting outside the Queen's private apartments. The chests were packed with only the barest essentials for the journey to Northumberland. All comforts would have to be left behind, but it was far from Spartan. They had fresh bread and honey, and even some nice riding silks and bows for any hunting they felt like doing along the route. Then, she heard a dragging noise coming from the outer gallery, and when she went to see what was happening, she saw Maggie bearing her mother back home, limping under her weight.

"What happened?" she asked, rushing to help and almost falling over herself in her haste.

Maggie was sobbing, fat tears rolling down her pale cheeks. "Papa was trying to kill Mama," she explained, "he was strangling her; I saw him!"

Aislin swore under her breath and immediately took over carrying Margaret who was beginning to lose consciousness again. "Your Grace," she called in her mistresses ear, "your grace, wake up now!"

Margaret groaned, to Aislin's relief, and laid her gently on the ground. "We must go," Margaret eventually said. "Now"

Maggie was shocked. "We can't!"

"We must!" Margaret insisted.

Aislin breathed a sigh of relief as Margaret seemed to quickly recover her strength. The Queen's throat was scarlet from where Archibald had his hands around her neck, and in the morning, it would be pure bruising. Reluctantly, she agreed with the Queen.

"If he thinks you're resting after this beating, then this is the best opportunity we have," she said.

"Wait," Maggie piped up, "we can't just leave father."

"Maggie," Aislin said, trying to be gentle. "We must get your mother away from him before he really does kill her. I'm sorry."

To her relief, Maggie brooked no further opposition. She went to get some wine to restore the Queen's strength and give her the boost she needed to get as far as the stables. When she returned with the wine, she was careful to assist Margaret in drinking the lot in one go, cupping her chin and holding the flask to her bleeding lips.

"When we ride out," said Aislin, "you will ride on my horse with me, and Maggie will come behind us with your horse tied to hers. When you're strong enough, you can ride alone again. We must go now, though. Maggie, go on to the stables and bring our horses to the front steps; take the chest with you."

For just ten minutes, the two women sat alone in the outer gallery while Margaret got her strength back. Even ten minutes was more than they could afford with Archie still on the loose around the Palace. Margaret's breathing was normal again, and she opened to her eyes and looked up at Aislin.

"He's coming for me," she said, stifling a sob, "he won't stop until he kills me."

Aislin said nothing for a while, trying to think of something that would reassure her. "Well, I won't let him," she said. "Now, come on. We must go before he comes to check on you."

On their way out of the Palace, Aislin stopped by the servants quarters and selected a rough woollen cloaks that was long enough to disguise the Queen and Maggie. If Archie had people watching the exits, she wanted them both disguised, even though she doubted he was capable of thinking that far ahead. Once they were out of the door, Maggie was waiting with three fine horses, just as Aislin asked. Finally, they were going to be free.

* * *

The noise of the children drove Henry out of the Royal Apartments, and back to the Counsel Chamber where he could get some peace. It was the day before their journey to Northumberland began, and they were bouncing off the walls with excitement; he didn't have the heart to tell them to shut it up and take it else where. But even there, he was not alone. He found Harry Courtenay deep in conversation with Cardinal Wolsey. They hadn't heard his approach, so he paused by the door, eavesdropping on their talk.

"He's an audacious fighter," said Harry, "just like his father. If he had an heir, I'd more than happy to put him in battle. Not in charge, just yet. But still in the ranks."

"There may not be a choice, Exeter," Wolsey replied. "If the Scots betray us at Northumberland, he may have to ride into battle regardless. It's a risk we have to take."

"Surely Suffolk and Buckingham can lead the troops, though?"

There was a pause.

"Well, yes," Wolsey eventually replied. "But it's always for the best if the King actually acts as the figure head. The people will come out for him. Besides, that's what Henry wants isn't it?"

"Is is," Harry replied emphatically. "I'll tell him to make sure he's armed. Like you, I have a very bad feeling about this conference and what the Scots really want out of it."

Henry stepped away from the door, a new excitement swelling in his chest. He turned towards the exit of the Palace, to where the armoury housed his father's old sword – the same one his grandfather used to win Bosworth. If Exeter and Wolsey were correct, he would be needing it after all.


	20. The First Move

**Author's Note:** Thanks to everyone who has read, reviewed and alerted this story; it means a great deal. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Reviews/constructive criticism would be most welcome, thank you.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty: The First Move.**

The dark haired boy was frantic; jostled among the crowds outside the palace like a leaf caught in an autumn breeze he was pulled along the current against his will. Until, that is, one strong arm reached down from its owners mount, and pulled him forcibly upwards into the saddle. Eyes wide in fear and alarm, he twisted round to see into the face of his saviour, and trembled with relief.

"Dickon," sighed Henry. "What are you doing out here? Where is Lady Salisbury? Where is our mother?"

The King nudged his horse forwards, looking out over the procession that was forming up outside the Palace of Greenwich. The progress north had begun the day before, but they had been forced to stop overnight just beyond London because of the ferocious downpours and, like all the smallest upsets to the best laid plans, all had been thrown into disarray while they geared to travel onwards.

The child looked up at the King. "I want to go home."

Henry sighed; threading his horse carefully through the lanes of carriages and litters, dodging the damp little crowds of retainers and yeomen. "Dickie, you'll enjoy Northumberland when you get there. Now stop crying and stay with your nurse."

Eventually, he found his mother and Lady Salisbury together at the head of the procession, unaware that Dickon had given them the slip. He was returned and greeted by his Governess with a biting reprimand and a smack on the leg that brought a yelp and a stifled sob. Catherine fussed over him immediately as she slid down from her horse. Like the King himself, she was travelling in the saddle at the head of the procession, making her visible to the people as they passed through town after village after city. Lady Salisbury and the children would be in the closed carriage, neither Mary nor Richard yet old enough to ride by themselves.

Henry dismounted, bowed politely to Catherine as she safely tucked Dickon away in his carriage beside Mary. "Mother," he called, getting to her attention. "Are they all right?"

"Don't fret," she replied, leaning forwards to plant a kiss on his cheek, "all will go to plan now."

"Yes, but the news from Scotland," he pointed out, "it sounded bad. Worse than usual."

News of the Queen's flight from Linlithgow had already reached them via an urgent despatch, but they had no others news. Margaret could be anywhere, now, and her helpless daughter with her. The exchange was supposed to happen at the conference. Catherine's expression darkened, not quite able to conceal her mutual fears.

"If it were up to me," Catherine remarked, "I would hunt the earl of Douglas down for attempted murder. Alas, King James seems to have strange priorities; even where his own mother is concerned."

To Henry, what started as a peace conference seemed to be turning into a grand rescue mission. He was in doubt that they yet to receive all the facts surrounding his Aunt's marriage, and all that had been happening in the last few years. None of the developments boded well to him. He excused himself from Catherine with a nod of the head, and ducked into the carriage where Richard and Mary were sat now, with Lady Salisbury.

"Lady Margaret," Henry greeted his Godmother cordially, "if I can just have a moment with my sister, please."

He stood aside to let Lady Salisbury leave the carriage, taking Richard with her. Catherine was already back in the saddle, ready for their imminent departure. He didn't have long, so Henry jumped inside, careful not to hit his head on the low roof of the cramped carriage.

Mary looked up at him from where she was curled on the seat with her knees tucked under her chin. "Your Grace," she greeted him formally, but made no effort to move.

Henry hunched down in front of her. "Lady Mary," he replied wit equal formality, but pinched her nose to make her laugh. "When we get to Northumberland, there may be another young girl there waiting for us. My cousin, Lady Margaret Douglas."

Mary nodded, recognition in her eyes, but didn't say anything – unsure as to where the conversation was going. So Henry continued: "She may be rather unhappy; her parents are having a bad time. So, I want you to be kind to Maggie, and try to be her friend. Look after her, and try to help her. It's very important, so, do you think you can do this for me?"

Mary beamed, glowing with pride at being entrusted with something important by her brother, the King. "Yes!" she replied, eagerly, "I promise I will."

"I know you can do it," he grinned in response and leaned forward to kiss her cheek just as the call for to form up came again. It was time to go.

* * *

It took three weeks, but they reached the border in the end. Exhausted, dispirited and sick with worry; but alive all the same. Margaret, Maggie and Aislin dismounted at Hadrian's Wall and looked out over the rolling Northumberland countryside. They would have been elated, if they weren't so downcast and dirty from the long journey. Margaret clung to her daughter fiercely as they crossed into Henry Percy's territory, sagging under the dizzy relief that they were finally all safe.

Luckily for them, the impending peace conference meant that the raids on Berwick had been called off. These border lands were free of Scots soldiers, and the women could cross the border untroubled. However, it wasn't just the Scots army that was nowhere to be seen.

"I see no sign of Northumberland's men."

It was Aislin who spoke. The landscape was beautiful, but it was also deserted. As far as the eye could see, hills rolled off to meet the distant horizon under wide open skies. Sheep grazed the lush pastures and the birds flitted from the trees that lined the boundaries of the farm strips. But, that is where the signs of life ended. They were quite alone, and they had no money at all. They had relied on Monasteries and Nunneries to provide them with shelter during the long Scottish nights on the road. It looked as though they would have to do the same in England, at least until they reached Alnwick, where the conference was due to take place. But at least now they could send a messenger from the Monastery and trust him to deliver it.

"Will the King of England definitely take us?" asked Maggie, craning her neck to see into her mother's face.

Margaret had been distracted. "We're bound to reach a Monastic house in Berwick. Once we get there, we can send out a messenger from the house, and inform Northumberland of our arrival. He will send men to escort us to Alnwick."

Since fleeing Linlithgow, her injuries had healed. The bruising was gone, and her spirit was restored. But there was only so much of this frugal living a Queen could take. One thing got her through, and that was the knowledge that she had seen the last of Archibald Douglas. Never again would he raise his hand to her, never again would she endure his lies and his deceit. As she returned home for the first time in over twenty years, she felt like a chapter had finally been closed, the day was fresh with the promise of a whole new one.

As predicted, they soon reached a monastery. The sun was just setting, making the river Tweed burn gold in the setting rays as it gurgled its way into town. Margaret showed her seal to the Abbot who made sure they were lodged in comfort, and a messenger was immediately despatched to Alnwick Castle. Just a week or so more, and they would be home and safe permanently.

* * *

After three weeks on the roads, the royal party made it, at last, to Northumberland. They stopped over night at one of the forts, but had no time to linger. They needed to arrive at Alnwick at the same time as King James, so the two rival nations could enter the negotiations side by side – neither taking precedence over the other. But, Harry Courtenay dismounted a mile away from Alnwick Castle, where the English were to await the Scots, and disentangled himself from the sprawling royal party. He knew searching for his wife would be like searching for a needle in a haystack, but sure she would know they had arrived. He hoped she had come out to greet him.

Gertrude had travelled ahead of him, ready to meet Margaret Tudor in case the Scots Queen arrived ahead of them. He needed to know if Margaret was safe. But, inevitably, Aislin slid into his thoughts, and once she was installed there, she was hard to remove again. He dodged the thickets of Courtiers milling about the foot of the hill beyond Percy's vast estates, slowly working his way forwards towards the Castle itself. Gertrude, as he suspected, was nowhere to be found. But, in the distant horizon, through he pale and fading light, a hundred standards fluttered against the sky. The Scots had arrived.

Hopelessly, he gave up his search and returned to the King and Queen Mother. "They're here," he informed the King. "We need to move on again."

The King blanched visibly; his resolve in carrying out his first tour of state seemingly weakening now that the moment was at hand. "How far away?" he asked, his gaze darting from Harry, to the northern fields.

"About a mile or two. We'll meet at the Castle as expected, so all's going to plan."

That, at least, was one thing to be grateful for. Henry, however, remained pale and uncertain; but still he gave the nod for the precession to move off again. As he turned away, he made sure the King was armed, noting with satisfaction that the old King's sword was hanging, sheaved, at his side.

"Harry," Catherine called him back as she remounted her horse, "any sign of Margaret?"

He replied with a shake of his head. "I have heard nothing, Your Grace."

* * *

Another three hours passed uneventfully by, and finally the two vast trains of England and Scotland met outside the walls of Alnwick Caste. Between them, guarding the lowered drawbridge, was the Earl of Northumberland himself, arm-in-arm with a tall, dark haired lady that Henry assumed was his future wife, Anne Boleyn. From the head of his train, he could see them both clearly, even the girl's dark eyes, resting quizzically on him. There was, however, no sign of Margaret. Not even Gertrude Courtenay was there.

At his side, his mother looked straight ahead, as though staring the entire Scots retinue out in a blinking contest. Her jaw was set firm, her thoughts completely unreadable.

Eventually, he asked: "Which one is King James?"

He had already scanned over the front lines, but they were still too far away. The sea of people in front of him were just a nebulous mass of colour and shape.

"How long are we just going to sit like this?" he added. It was more like a siege than a conference.

"Let them make the first move," Catherine replied.

"Your mother's right," Harry Courtenay chipped in. "Let them come to us."

They fell into a silence; a spiralling tension as the two vast camps eyed each other from such a small divide. Then, Henry picked him out. He could see the coronet glittering in the setting sun, and the vast lion rampant standard fluttering over the King of Scot's head. He was no more than a year older than Henry himself. He looked again at his mother to his right, and his cousin to his left. Both of them were the same; resolute and standing firm. No one budged an inch. Not even Hal Stafford was breaking ranks - something he had proved himself to be highly adept at in the past.

"This is absurd!" Henry snapped, and dug his spurs into the flank of his horse.

Catherine shot him an angry look. "Stay here!" she hissed, as his horse moved forwards, fast building to a trot. "Get back here!"

Harry Courtenay tried to grab at the reins of his horse, but it was too late. Henry rode out alone to meet his Cousin face to face, otherwise he feared the stand off would last all night and he was tired and hungry – he suspected James was, too, and that he also had counsellors who believed him beyond such mortal needs. As the horse jogged forwards, he kept his eye on his rival all the same, aware that Harry Courtenay had followed him so he wasn't totally alone.

For a long moment, he thought the Scots were just going to watch him. But, to his relief, the figure of King James moved forwards. He, too, spurred his horse into a trot, and did not slow down until they met, in the middle of the field that divided their two camps. Henry slid down from his horse, and bowed respectfully to his cousin; his brother King. Although James repeated the gesture, the atmosphere was tense, each not quite trusting the other.

Henry smiled. "Your Majesty," he addressed James. "You are most welcome to England; I pray you make yourself at home here; my people are at your disposal."

Henry put out his hand which James looked at for a moment. He went to shake hands, but then stopped suddenly with his hand half stretched out. "No, not like this," he said, his accent heavy, almost indecipherable to Henry.

Affronted, Henry was about to ask what he had done to offend the Scots already. But before he could get a word out, James had pulled him into a bear hug. An embrace that Henry returned willingly, with relief flooding him. The ball of tension burst, and a round of applause erupted from both nations. Henry quickly cast a glance over his shoulder. The rest of the English delegation - like the Scots on the opposite side - were now advancing towards the Castle, and his mother beamed proudly at him. He grinned back at her, and turned to James.

"Together," he said, nodding towards the portcullis, now raised, over the drawbridge into the Castle. "Shall we?"

James smiled. "I think we shall," he replied.

And so they did.

* * *

From a window on the second floor of the Castle Keep, Margaret watched the two nations arrive, side by side. Maggie, exhausted, had fallen into a deep sleep in the bed of their shared chambers. Aislin tried her best to make the rooms feel more like home, and busied herself with stoking the fire. But Margaret was consumed with the scene unfolding before her. Then, she saw him. Her son, who she had not seen for years. Tears welled in her eyes as she watched him enter the Castle keep with the ghost of her brother at his side - he and the ghost seemed deep in conversation. She had to double take.

"Henry?" she whispered, frowning in puzzlement at the boy at James's side.

She put it down to exhaustion as she realised it was her nephew, and not her brother back from the grave. A tear rolled down her cheek as she retreated from view and lay down beside her daughter. Whatever happened from here on in, she had to be fully rested to bring it about.


	21. Let It Be

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, favourited and alerted this story – it means a lot, so thank you. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Reviews would be most welcome, thank you.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty One: Let It Be.**

Alnwick; a heavily fortified castle that sprawled across the hills, overlooking the whole of Northumberland. Its panoramic views, especially from where Catherine sat in the Solar, were majestic. Among all that beauty, there was just one thing that Catherine yearned to see, and it arrived the morning after she and her retinue made it to the castle. The standard of the Duke of Buckingham fluttering in the courtyards below; her husband dismounting a great brute of a war horse, and heading straight to her chambers.

Quickly, she gathered Mary and Dickon; making them instantly ready to greet their father the moment he appeared at the door. He had been sent to Northumberland the moment the raids began, almost eight months ago, and the children were chomping at the bit to see him again. And after eight months in an empty bed, Catherine was rather looking forward to seeing Edward again, too.

As soon as he appeared at the door, the children were in his arms like a shot. He scooped both of them up in his muscular arms and whirled them through the air amid squeals of delight from both. Catherine hung back, just watching them until things settled and the excited babble died down again. Then, their gaze met across the solar, and for a long moment they just looked at one another, smiles slowly returning to their faces.

"Husband," said Catherine, stepping closer.

Edward held her in his gaze longingly. "Darling!"

And then it was Catherine's turn to be swept off her feet like a giddy girl. Thankfully, Lady Salisbury had the sense to usher to the children away, and they found themselves quite alone together. Catherine let her face rest on his shoulder as they held each other close, content just to hear the reassuring skip and jump of the pulse beneath his shirt. Edward, in return, breathed her scent deep into his lungs; letting his fingers trail through her rich hair, savouring its lustrous softness. "Did you miss me?" he asked, grinning wolfishly down at her.

Catherine lifted her head from where it rested, now against his collarbone. "With every fibre of my being, and more."

He laughed, squeezing her close. "There are no words," he said, "to convey how I missed you."

They kissed one another deeply, and regrettably, that was all they could do. As much as Catherine ached for him, they had to be ready for the first formal meeting of the two Kings that was due to take place in the Great Hall that evening, and before that, they had important matters of state to discuss. But for the love of their country, they could have had all the time in the world to spend in each others arms.

"You know Margaret is here," Edward said as they settled themselves into two high-backed chairs near the fire. "She got here yesterday with her daughter and one of her own ladies."

Catherine frowned. "Yes, our old friend the earl of Kildare's daughter," she replied at length. "The Marchioness of Exeter has been fretting about that. But, I must say, our Mary has made the greatest of effort to be of good comfort and cheer to Lady Margaret Douglas. I believe the two of them are becoming fast friends already."

"Two girls, the same age. It's natural," replied Edward, "and they're as good as family to each other. But, I hear a far more important friendship is budding between these very walls?"

Catherine smiled delightedly. "Henry and King James!" she replied, "it's gone so well; almost too well. Henry has risen to the challenge, and of his own volition."

Edward reached out and took her hand in his own. "He's had the best possible teacher, though," he said, giving her a wink.

She was about to say something back, but instead made much better use of the little time they had left, and pulled him into a deep kiss once more.

* * *

The Duke and Duchess of Suffolk squeezed into the small alcove just off the Great Hall, and kissed one another passionately. They, like the Queen Dowager and the Duke of Buckingham, had been forced apart by the border raids. However, unlike the Queen and the Duke, their intimate reunion was watched from afar by two ten year old girls, straining to see over the mezzanine balcony on the first floor. Although equally short in stature, their vantage from the balcony gave them a bird's eye view of every soul that passed through these chambers of power.

"Look down there," said Mary, pointing them out to Maggie, "that's our Aunt Mary and Uncle Charles – the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk."

Maggie was blushing furiously, down to the roots of her equally red hair; her eyes wide as saucers. "What is he doing to her?"

"They missed each other, that's all," replied Mary. "They're in love."

"Do all men and women in love eat each others faces like that?" Maggie asked, her brow knitted with worry, "it looks rather painful."

Mary mused on that for a moment: they did look like two goldfish savaging one another. However, as she went to expound on her theories about grown ups in love, another passing shape caught her eye and she was on her tip-toes once more.

"Him!" she exclaimed, pointing to the rapidly advancing Harry Courtenay. "That's our Cousin – he's the Marquis of Exeter, Harry Courtenay. That girl he's walking towards now, that must be Gert-" she broke off, puzzled. "Actually no, I don't know who she is."

The two figures threw their arms around one another and held each other tight.

"Oh no," said Mary, "I don't think we're supposed to be seeing this."

She looked over at Maggie, who looked down on the two people is apparent shock. "That's Lady Aislin!"

"Who?" Mary leaned forwards to get a better look.

She couldn't make the girl out, and soon Harry and she vanished into one of the outer-galleries, and away from her line of sight.

"Mary, be careful!"

Maggie tried to pull Mary down from the edge of the balcony before she pitched forwards to her death, but her hand slipped and Mary fell even further forwards. Mary cried out in shock as she lost her footing, but before she could struggle any further, a passing adult stepped in and hauled her back to safety.

Embarrassed by her own foolishness, Mary stammered her trembling apologies. But Maggies face lit up in a bright smile when she turned to look at their saviour. "My Lord of Montrose!" she greeted the man, delighted that it was her who was able to identify an important person for a change. She had seen the earl with her father on numerous occasions.

The Earl of Montrose knelt down so that he was level with the two girls. Mary's fear that he would be furiously angry with her soon melted away when she saw the kindly smile crinkle the corners of soft, brown, eyes. "Now, what trouble are you two little scoundrels getting up to?" he asked. "Or dare I ask?"

Maggie giggled. "Cousin Mary is showing me my family," she explained. "It's all perfectly innocent."

Montrose's smile waned, replaced by a look of sadness. "You know," he began, speaking low so that Mary could barely hear him. "Your family misses you greatly, especially your father. He gave me something to give to you, and something else for you to give to your brother when you're presented to him tomorrow night."

Maggies face fell, a look so desolate that Mary ached for her. The man passed her the letters, both sealed with a tag that Mary had not seen before. Maggie took them both without question, but Mary sensed she felt guilty for taking the letters all the same. "Thank you," she murmured, the sound lost to Mary.

Montrose smiled. "Remember, these are secret letters Your Grace. Keep them safe, and follow the instructions your father gives you. Can you do that?"

Maggie nodded, a slow, rueful nod.

With that, Montrose tossed them both a coin and disappeared among the crowds that now poured out of the meeting chamber to their left. Mary grabbed her cousin's arm and steered them both out of the way before anyone else could catch them at play. Once they were outside in a private rose garden, Mary wasted no time in digging the gossip. "What do they say?" she asked, giddy with excitement.

Maggie did not seem to share her enjoyment, though. She seemed to turn even more pale as she picked open the seal on her letter. She read slowly.

"He wants to meet me," she said, whispering low. "I am to give this letter to King James at eight o clock precisely, and if I want to, he will be waiting for me outside the castle walls. He just wants to talk to me about what I saw."

Mary had regained her composure, and her expression was serious as she sat Maggie down on a nearby bench. "What did you see?"

Maggie trembled inside her elaborate new gown. "Oh, nothing."

It didn't look like nothing to Mary, but she sensed that her Cousin was not yet ready to talk about it, so did not pry any further. "I think you should go," said Mary, "he only wants to explain things to you, and my mother always says to me that I should get both sides of the story before I make a judgement. Have you heard his side of the story, yet?"

Maggie gave another shake of her head. "No," she replied sadly. "We left without explanation from anyone. I didn't even get to say goodbye. But there was good cause; I just can't say what it is. But, even knowing what I know, I still want to see Papa one more time – even if just to say goodbye to him." Her eyes were shining; tears threatening to spill.

Mary shrugged. "You know what I think; the same as my Mother – there is no one wiser than her, and she says you must always hear everyone out. Anyway, what about the other one?"

Maggie smiled, relieved that the subject had changed. "That's for James. It's probably something boring, like salmon rivers in Lanarkshire being poached; or some peasant running too many cows on the common."

Mary wrinkled her nose. "Urgh!" she stated, like it was a valid, professional, opinion. "Come along, now, I can help you with your father before we go to see our brothers."

For a moment, Maggie looked as if she were going to protest. However, she simply linked her arm through Mary's before they both turned from the balcony and its vista of Alnwick, and trotted off in the direction of the Great Hall.

* * *

Now that the moment had finally arrived, Harry wasn't sure what he was going to do with it. When they had seen each other, a rush of mutual recognition and the love of decade old memories had them racing into each others arms like long lost lovers. It was a spontaneous thing, conducted in regrettable public. Already Henry was flushed with guilt – what if someone saw? What if Gertrude found out? Was that a glimpse of Lady Mary he caught up on the balcony?

Now, both of them secreted in a small, airless closet room, Harry has perched himself on the window ledge, his frame, narrow as it is, blocking out most of the pallid light. Aislin sits on a pile of unwashed bed linens heaped two foot away in the corner. They appraise each other carefully.

"So," she says, looking up at him. "You're married now? To her?"

He nods, he feels inexplicably guilty for it – as though he's cheated on her.

"You love her?"

He blushed crimson.

"Forgive me," she hastily added, realising she had pried too far, that they did not belong to one another. "But, you have a son?"

A weight shifted in Harry's chest as they moved on to friendlier ground. "Edward," he answered, "he's our pride and joy. Our only child. You?"

Her expression was sad, her eyes cast down; searching the floor. "Little Maggie's the closest thing I have to a child," she replied, the pain of a woman who's only ever going to experience a second hand motherhood clear in her dark, glittering eyes.

His backside ached from sitting on the narrow sill, so he slid down to land softly on his feet, letting in an abundance of surplus light into the tiny closet as he did so. He sees now, that the years of sadness, shut away in Scotland, have taken something of the shine away from her. But she's still beautiful, he can see that much. Just a flicker of the girl she once was buried beneath the years. She gets up and they looked at each, nose to nose. "It will be all right," he said, embracing her briefly. He had said that to her ten years ago, and it had started to sound just a little hollow.

She brushes a kiss against his whiskery cheek, a roughness he did not have ten years ago, and rests a hand lightly on his narrow hip. "Your wife will be wondering where you are," she said, emotionless and flat.

* * *

Harry found Gertrude waiting by the fireside. She had been in Northumberland for a whole month longer than him, but their reunion was muted. No lingering embraces; no hiding behind the arras for an illicit romp to be overseen by anybody. Just a perfunctory kiss and a whispered: "I missed you."

Now all he could see of her was her profile illuminated by the flames, her china-blue eyes glittering gold in the reflected mini-inferno. "You were with her, weren't you?"

How women knew these things Harry never could tell. He knew, also, that there was no point lying; it would be an insult to them both. "We were just making each others acquaintance again," he replied, truthfully.

She turns from the fire, showing him her silhouetted back and all he can see is the tight stitching of her impossibly laced bodices, the flare of her silk skirts fanned out against the floorboards. The French sleeves hanging limp at her sides like great folds of surplus flesh, the long tendrils of dark hair curling at her elbows. Her waist is so slim, so delicate, he has to place his hands there to stop it from snapping in half.

Gertrude's body trembles at his touch – just a tremor at the shock of sudden human contact. She twists her neck to face him, and sees the single, bell-bottomed tear drop shining on her cheekbone. His pulse pounds painfully in his throat when he sees it, and gently lifts his hand to dab it away. "Don't cry," he whispers into the dark space between them. The kiss they shared was forced, like something expected of them by a large audience of invisible spectators; stilted by duty.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the voice at the back of his mind smothered the words. Whatever he said now would only make things worse. "Let it be," he thought to himself. "Just let it be."

* * *

The atmosphere in the Great Hall of Alnwick castle was dizzying. Henry was glad to be a spectator, with just his cousin, King James, at his side to preside over the entertainments. He glanced over at his Scottish counter-part; James was relaxed, reclining in his seat content to watch the latest masque. It was the siege of Troy being acted out in front of them, for their pleasure. They conversed in fits and starts, guessing at who was who under the disguises. Henry hadn't noticed it before, but what he had lacked all his life, from the moment he was born, was an equal. Someone who knew what it was to be King from, literally in his case, his first breath. James had no memory of his father, and Henry's died before he was born. All they had were images in their heads of the men their fathers were, a lofty ideal upon which they were condemned to spend their lives trying to live up to.

Just one thing separated them. James, Henry realised with a pang of sadness, didn't even have a mother on whom he could lean when life cut up rough. He thought of all the times he had fallen asleep at his desk after working late into the night, and awoken to find himself covered over with Catherine of Aragon's Spanish cloak; or how many times he had neglected to eat to accommodate his workload, to find her standing in the doorway with a plate of left-over sweetmeats and a glass of wine just for him. Why, James didn't even have the benefit of a sturdy step-father, or a half-brother and a half-sister to distract him from his eternal duties. Even the corners of Henry's chambers would feel incomplete without the foreboding shadow of Hal Stafford looming over the proceedings. Speaking of Hal, where had he been? Half the women of Court were trailing pathetically after him, and he was invisible. But, Henry didn't have time to dwell on that.

"Your Grace," he leaned sideways, talking directly into James' ear.

James placed the goblet down on the table, eyes drawn reluctantly away from the masque. "Just James, please!" he laughs. "Formality need not come between us, surely?"

Henry hesitated. "James," he eventually corrected himself. "I pray your indulgence, but I arranged for my Aunt Margaret to have an audience with us."

The briefest of shadows flitted across the face of the Scots King. "Whatever for?"

"Because … she's your mother, and I think she misses you," he replied, frowning. "She has endured years of-"

"Yes, I'm quite aware," James interjected, cutting Henry off mid-sentence. "Now then," he added, gesturing to the dance floor. "Which of these women tickles your fancy?"

Henry, understanding the subject to be firmly closed, turned to look in the direction his cousin pointed. It was impossible to tell; they all wore disguises as they danced among themselves. Henry reclined in his chair, let his eye rove over to where his aunt waited – hidden in the alcoves- and cast her an apologetic look.


	22. At What Price Peace?

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story; your input is always greatly appreciated. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this (except for the few fictional characters). Apologies for the slight delay in updated this, and reviews would be very welcome, thank you again.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Two: At What Price Peace?  
**

The crowds, from both England and Scotland, had been gathering for hours in advance. The Great Hall of Alnwick Castle could barely hold them all, and the dais on which the King's over-saw proceedings had to be pushed right back against the far wall and Henry had to take care not to pull down one of Percy's fine arras tapestries every time he pulled his chair out. Above his head was the cloth of state, and down his side of the hall the cross of St George hung from every rafter. On the left, the hall had been decorated in Lions Rampant. Neither one side or the other took precedence over the other.

Henry looked down the table, to his right. Directly beside him was Cardinal Wolsey – the man who'd arranged the whole peace conference. Then, there was Catherine and Edward Stafford; the Dukes of Suffolk and Norfolk followed, and then Harry and Gertrude Courtenay. Henry couldn't help but notice they spoke little to each other. Gertrude toyed with her glass of wine, whereas Harry's intermittent attempts at conversation went ignored. In fact, the only conversation that Henry could discern was between his aunt Mary and Anne Boleyn; who was thanking Mary profusely for helping to arrange her marriage to the Earl of Northumberland. "It was the least I could do after what you did for Charles and I," Mary answered Boleyn, embracing her warmly.

Henry's interest flickered only briefly. All he wanted now was to get the signing of the peace accord out of the way so they could eat their now long over-due meal and get to their beds. The endless round of ceremony and ritual, solemn and joyful, had caught him up and over-taken a long time ago. Stifling another yawn, he decided to take his mind of his own tiredness by leaning to the left to engage his Cousin in more conversation. Despite being side by side for several days now, they still had almost no time for themselves.

But, after another ten minutes of discussion about trade routes, the Master of Ceremonies was finally on his feet. It was seven-thirty already, and Henry was famished. "Just get on with it," he murmured, drawing a dark look from his cousin. "Forgive me," he added a little louder, "all this tires me terribly."

As the Master of Ceremonies droned about the impending gift giving service, Henry's eye roved over the crowds. Among the nebulous sea of faces he could pick out his sister, Mary, sat beside his Cousin, Lady Margaret Douglas. It looked as if they were passing notes to one another under the table. At least they had a distraction from the interminable drudgery of the ceremony.

"First of all," the man at the front of the dais said, "His Royal Majesty, King James of Scotland, would like to present the King of England with a small token of his love and respect on this historic occasion."

The two Kings rose to their feet as James' first minister handed him an ornate box. James opened it himself, presenting Henry with a fine plate of gold adorned with many white diamonds and red rubies fashioned to resemble to Cross of St George. "For you, Cousin, from Scotland."

"Thank you," replied Henry, making sure he looked suitably humbled as he accepted the gift on behalf of the nation of England. Once they had given the kiss of peace, Henry took a similar ornate wooden box from Cardinal Wolsey, his own first minister. "Likewise, I too have a small token of my love and devotion to your majesty, and to our friends and allies in Scotland. May this herald an era of eternal peace, and boundless prosperity between our two great nations."

He opened the box to reveal a fine collar of Spanish gold, decorated with emeralds and many fine gems that glittered in the bright candlelight. As James accepted the gift and made his own small speech, Henry could just see Maggie Douglas from the corner of his eye, handing a note to one of the Ushers. He pushed that out of his mind as he realised he's missed James' cue to embrace. They clasped each other again, and sat back down as Wolsey went to fetch the written agreement. But as he disappeared, the Usher that Maggie had spoken to approached the table. He handed a note to King James, and bowed away from the table again.

Henry's first thought that it was from Maggie's mother, attempting to reach out to her son. But, as James read through the note, his expression burned scarlet with a sudden anger. "What is the meaning of this?" he shouted down at Henry, scraping back his chair in a hurry and almost pulling the arras down.

A silence fell as James' angry shouts reverberated around the whole Hall.

"I beg your pardon?" asked Henry, thinking it was some sort of joke.

James didn't answer, but his hand had travelled to the hilt of a sword that was concealed at beneath his velvet robe. They were not supposed to be armed at all, since it was a peace conference.

"I could very well ask you the same thing!" retorted Henry as he nodded towards the weapon.

But James' anger grew. "Don't you try to talk your way out of this; you've been double playing us all along. I should never have trusted you! You lying, cheating, English snake!"

Without thinking, Henry was on his feet and before he even realised what he was doing, his fist connected with James' jaw. The force of the blow sent the Scots King reeling backwards into the lap of his stunned first minister. Immediately, a shocked silence stifled the murmurs of the crowds who became again enraptured by the scene unfolding before them. James struggled to free himself, and Henry readied himself for the fightback.

"We're not the ones coming armed to a peace conference, Sir," he snapped acidly at his counter-part. "So if there is duplicity-"

His sentence was cut off as rough hands seized his upper-arms and he found himself being forcibly marched from the Great Hall. As he went, an angry buzz of discontented voices followed in his wake as the bizarre situation seemed to finally register with everyone. Then. All hell broke loose in the Hall as angry voices all called out at once, shouting incoherently. Henry tried to shake off the person who was frog marching him towards the ante-chamber outside, but that person was joined by his mother, Catherine, who grabbed his other arm and continued half-dragging him the way they were going.

Catherine shoved Henry sharply in the small of the back, propelling him into the ante-chamber and a door slammed shut after them all. "What the hell are you playing at?" she hissed at low, dangerously, at him. "Are you trying to start a war?"

Henry was shocked and confused. Surely she could see that he had been grossly insulted by the Scots. "What?" he choked, turning to the third person. It was Harry Courtenay, but he wouldn't even look at Henry now. "Cousin," Henry implored him, "You saw what happened! They just accused us out of the blue. Completely without provocation!"

Harry only looked up briefly. He wasn't angry; he just had an expression of supreme disappointment on his face. "I have to get back out there to sort that riot out," he murmured to himself more than anyone else, and he was gone in an instant without even looking back.

Catherine was torn between staying there to scold Henry further and rejoining the fray. "Stay here, do not move," she said, reaching her own compromise. "You've done enough damage already."

He tried to speak, to defend his actions, but Catherine cut him short before rushing back outside to help calm he situation. For a long moment, Henry remained sitting alone in the ante-chamber and listened to the angry voices exchanging insults. All the time, however, he was thinking of Maggie Douglas. She handed the note over to James, meaning someone handed it to her to unwittingly pass on to her half-brother. She was just a child, she couldn't possibly have known what she was doing. Without a moments further hesitation, Henry was on his feet and out of the ante-chamber door. There was another way in without his being seen by his mother, and all he had to do was get Maggie and find out what really happened.

* * *

"Behind the arras, quick!" Mary clasped Maggie's hand and ducked behind the tapestry that was concealing one of the bay windows in the Great Hall. The diversion came unexpectedly and a lot sooner than either of them had expected. Maggie was breathless; wide-eyed and fearful as they took a moment to catch their breath.

"How do we get out of here?" she asked, whispering low in Mary's ear.

Mary was peering out from a corner of the tapestry. "Now!" she hissed, and pulled Maggie along in her wake.

Outside, no one paid any attention to them as they weaved through the throng of bodies that now converged in the middle of the Great Hall. Maggie just followed Mary as she led the way outside. The door was unguarded, the Yeomen being engaged in the fight that had erupted all around them as a result of the note that Maggie had passed to James. The Corridors were deserted, too. They had to duck behind a display case to avoid a furious looking Queen Catherine as she marched back to the Hall, but she was so preoccupied by the storm that she would never have seen them anyway.

Once the coast was clear again, Mary led the way outside. They had gone no more than a few feet before they had to duck for cover again.

"Who is it?" Maggie asked, breathless and anxious.

"Just Henry," Mary whispered back as her brother ran past their hiding place in a small alcove. He didn't look around, instead focused on the way ahead and again, the girls went undetected.

It was their last interruption before they reached the entrance to the courtyard of Alnwick Castle. It was dark out already, the sun having set more than two hours past. Once they were safely out, Mary took a burning torch from the bracket set by the door and handed it to Maggie.

"You'll need this," she said, briefly giving her a one armed hug.

Maggie took the torch, her hand trembling violently from the chase through the castle. "Thank you, Mary," she said appreciatively. "I couldn't have done this without you."

Mary didn't reply; just smiled as she and Maggie began a more leisurely walk towards the Castle gates. Already they could see a man waiting there. "Is that him?" asked Mary.

Maggie squinted through the darkness, holding her torch a little higher. "That's him," she confirmed, her voice tremulous with emotion. "Meet me back here in two hours."

"Good luck, Cousin," Mary said, kissing Maggies cheek, and turning back towards the Castle.

* * *

The Hall was still crowded when Henry returned. He found himself pushing through the knotted crowds, being jostled off course as he tried to reach the spot where he last saw Mary and Maggie. More than once, he had to swerve deliberately to avoid his own councillors who thought that he had been safely confined. He knew he longer had time to remonstrate with them, to try and justify his actions; the only person who could help him now was Maggie Douglas. She had the note, the answers and the explanations, with only a faint hope that she had confided in Mary.

He reached the spot where the girls had been seated together, and found it empty. Just a few disheartened looking men sat there, their heads in their hands as they bemoaned the collapse of the peace conference. Frustrated, Henry ignored them and took his search outside, cursing himself that he didn't think the eruption of fighting had terrified the poor girls away long ago. Outside, however, he only found his Aunt Mary being consoled by her husband and Anne Boleyn.

Charles looked ten foot tall in his anger. "I knew something like this would happen," he stormed, pacing to and fro.

Anne tightened her embrace on Mary. "Please Your Grace. Her Grace is already upset enough."

Henry paused, considered retreating before they had a chance to see him. He couldn't face another rollicking, especially not with his own uncle in the mood he was now. However, as he turned to retreat back the way he came, Charles' voice beckoned him over: "Don't go skulking away."

Henry stopped, breathed an impatient sigh, and turned to face his uncle while bracing himself for whatever may come. "Please Uncle, I need to find my sister."

"Mary?" his aunt disentangled herself from Anne, and looked up at him in confusion.

"And Maggie Douglas," he added, "she passed that note to the Usher, the one that sent James into apoplexy."

Above all, Charles was loyal to the King of England. His impatience melted away, replaced with concern. No questions asked, he clapped his nephew on the shoulder. "I'll take Mary back to our chambers and search for her myself."

Henry breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Your Grace."

Wasting no more time, he returned to the Great Hall while Charles took care of his aunt. He wanted to sweep the Hall one more time for either Mary or Maggie, and then he would try the chambers of his aunt Margaret. If not in the Hall, surely she would return to her mother. But no sooner was he back inside the Hall, than he ran straight into his mother, Harry Courtenay and Cardinal Wolsey. They were conferring among themselves at Mary's old table, having banished the dejected men who were there not five minutes ago.

"If we can get James back, then we can sort this mess-" Harry Courtenay broke off as he caught sight of Henry passing them by.

Catherine, noticing his sudden lapse, turned to follow the line of his gaze. "Henry!" she called out to her son. "Henry, I thought I told you to stay outside until we mended this?"

He went to protest, but already she was on her feet and closing the gap between them. Harry was up too, after that, and joining her. "Mary saw what happened!" said Henry, stopping their advance.

"What?" asked Catherine, her eyes narrowed as she looked daggers at him.

Hastily, he explained what he saw, that Maggie had passed the note to James. To his frustration, the others looked to one another sceptically. Finally, however, the Cardinal threw the King a lifeline. "It won't hurt to ask her. She's only over there."

Henry whirled around, and found his sister standing directly behind him. "I've been searching all over for you!" he snapped at her.

But Mary merely looked up at him in wide-eyed innocence, as though mass fights and broken peace treaties were just a normal part of her daily routine. "Really, brother? I apologise, but Dickon was tired; I took him back to our Chambers."

Harry Courtenay stepped around Henry to speak with her himself. "Did you see Lady Douglas pass a note to an Usher? Do you know what it said?"

Mary's expression didn't so much as flicker as she gave a shrug. "I know of no note," she replied, causing a swell of impotent anger in her brother. "Now Margaret has retired for the night. She won't be up again until morning."

"This is pointless," Harry Courtenay said, running an impatient hand through his hair.

Catherine sighed, and took Mary by the hand. "It's all right, Mary. Come with me, now."

Henry watched helplessly as Catherine led Mary away, presumably to her own chambers, leaving he and Harry Courtenay alone. He was still sighing and huffing over what had happened as he led Henry back through the Hall. "If you had kept calm then we could have gained from this," he stated, "you could used the slight on your good name to win extra concessions. Instead, you act like a common drunk and fight the man. Don't you see? You've handed them the moral high ground with a bow on it."

Henry followed his Cousin, just one step behind him, and flushed in embarrassment. "I know I let you down," he explained, all hollow and lame. "I didn't mean to do it!"

Harry stopped beyond the Hall, just outside the Chamber he was first taken to, and rounded on him sharply. "This is going to cost us dearly; you know that, don't you?"

Henry didn't want to answer that. His regret must have shown on his face, because Harry simply carried on walking again, decidedly deflated. Henry's hope that he would be left alone again evaporated quickly as Harry followed him inside his chambers.

"Don't do anything else tonight," he advised. "After assaulting a King, you're only going to make things worse. Get some rest; clear your head and for now, leave it to the cooler heads of your ministers."

With his own Cousin still angry, Henry saw no point in arguing. He shrugged his shoulders, defeated, and slumped down in the nearest chair. Harry was watching him, as though waiting for another opportunity to lecture him. But he soon gave up, and left him alone to stew in his own juices.

* * *

Maggie was becoming increasingly uncertain. She understood what her father had said; that if they stayed there outside the Castle of Alnwick, that he could be discovered and arrested. But, she thought that the carriage they had hidden in had travelled quite far enough away already, and there was no sign of them stopping. She looked up at her father, a man she barely recognised now. He was thin, unkempt and unshaven. But he was as tender as ever he was with her. Finally, she summoned up the courage to ask him to take her back. "Mama will be looking for me, Papa," she informed him calmly. "Once I tell her that you're better now, I know she will forgive you. But first I must see her, to speak with her."

Archibald Douglas shook his head. "No, my love," he answered her softly, "come home with me for just one day, and we can talk sense into your mother the day after the next. She'll be more inclined to listen; and I promise you won't get into trouble."

That had been her main concern – that her mother would be angry for not telling her about this meeting. "Where are you taking me?" she asked, still tremulous.

Archie smiled. "Home," he replied, planting a rough kiss on her cheek as they jolted along a dirt track. "You're coming home with me."

* * *

Aislin peered into the Great Hall, and took in a scene of devastation. Tables and chairs had been upturned; detritus of bottles, goblets and discarded food littered the floor. There was even the odd unconscious body of various retainers and servants sprawled under the tables that remained standing. All snored heavily; none were dead – she noted with a sigh of relief. She looked over her shoulder, and gestured to Margaret to follow her.

"Any sign?" the Queen asked, the note of panic in her voice was becoming more pronounced now.

Aislin shook her head. "No sign of her," she answered ruefully. "Maybe Queen Catherine took her back with Lady Mary after the fight broke out?"

"She would have sent a messenger to let me know."

"Even with all the panic and confusion?" asked Aislin. "It looks like a riot happened in here; maybe it slipped her mind and her first thought was to get the girls to safety?"

Margaret emerged into the light of a torch set by the door of the Great Hall, and saw for herself the state the place was in. "Perhaps," she answered weakly. "Perhaps, too, she left the girls in the care of Mary's Governess? Lady Salisbury wouldn't know where to send a messenger." She, herself, didn't sound convinced of her own reasoning. Her eyes still shone; her face still drawn with fear. "James is lost to me, now," she said, beginning to tremble again. "But if anything happened to Maggie..." he voice trailed off, unable to bring herself to voice the concerns in her head. Eventually, she added: "Let's try one more time; just one more search."

Aislin lifted the torch from its bracket by the door. "Outside," she suggested, with a nod to the nearby exit. "We haven't tried the stables yet."

With her free hand, Aislin took Margaret by the wrist and led her outside like an invalid. The cold air hit them like a slap in the face, and they both knew no one would survive for long outside on a night like that one. Nevertheless, they searched on in the darkness, for a girl who left no trace.


	23. These Colours Don't Run

**Author's Note:** Thank you to **Mimi Du Bois** and Vader's** Mistress** for the reviews – it's very much appreciated! The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Three: These Colours Don't Run.**

Somewhere nearby a door slammed shut, loud enough to shake the old brick walls, and Henry jerked awake. He lay, fully dressed, on top of his four poster bed and stared up at the canopy as the memories of the day before dropped like lead weights back into his consciousness. A dull ache soon throbbed at his temples, and he raised a stiff arm to try and massage the unpleasantness away. He wished the person next door would stop slamming doors and stamping about, though.

Just then, the voice of Lady Salisbury drifted in from the corridor outside his chambers. She sounded harassed:

"The Lady Mary just will not be comforted!" she cried to someone or herself. "All morning now she has been in a fit of torment and she won't say why. I know not what more I can do."

"Oh, just leave her be!" Hal Stafford retorted dismissively. "When she calms down, do try to get some sense out of her, for pities sake."

Henry sat bolt upright on the bed, glaring at the door as though he could see through it to what was going on on the other side. What on earth Hal was doing out there he couldn't guess. But if he got to Mary he would make trouble for her; Henry knew that much. Without even splashing some water on his face, he dashed out of the room to intervene. Outside, Lady Salisbury was still speaking with Hal Stafford. But as soon as Henry appeared at the door, Hal made his escape.

"Like I said, Lady Margaret, if you hear anything about Lady Douglas, do let the Queen or my father know," he said, concluding the conversation he'd been having – the part Henry had not heard. "As you can understand, her mother is quite anxious."

Lady Salisbury looked flustered now. "Of course; I'll send Ursula if we get any news here." Wringing her hands, she turned to walk away as Hal, also, vanished down the passage way. "Terrible business; just terrible."

Henry remembered the note, the girl's disappearance and Mary's outright lie that to him – him, of all people – the night before. Apprehension churned like curdled milk in his stomach.

"Lady Salisbury!" he called out, stopping her before she could retreat back to Mary. "What's going on? Where is Maggie Douglas?"

The ageing Countess, the one who'd nursed all the royal children as far back as Henry's father, stopped and fixed him in a fearful gaze. "Gone," she whimpered, "no one knows where, Your Grace. Poor Mary is in a state; can't stop the tears for anything."

"I will speak with her alone," Henry curtly informed before stepping around her and into the chamber.

He found Mary still in her night dress, curled into a ball on top of her bed. She had her knees drawn up under her chin, and her face buried in her arms. Her long. Dark tresses hung in damp tangles about her shoulders as her whole body convulsed with spasms of tears. She had heard him enter, but she did not lift her face up to greet him in any way. For a long moment, Henry simply stood by the bed, one hand holding back the crimson velvet hangings and wondered what on earth he could do to calm her. Eventually, he dismissed the few servants that were still lingering in the room, ordering them to join Lady Salisbury in the ante-chamber so he could speak privately with his sister.

Once they were safely out of earshot, he climbed up on the bed, still with his boots on, and drew the hangings shut. Only a thin sliver of golden sunlight slanted through a small gap, illuminating the girl who still wouldn't look at him.

"Mary," he said, careful to keep his tone calm and soothing. "Mary look at me."

Silence. Just a hiccough and a stifled sob. At least she was trying to control herself now. He afforded her another minute before trying again.

"Mary, I need you to tell me what happened last night," he said, "I promise, no blame will fall with you. I give you my word."

Mary lifted her tear-streaked face and looked at him. "I c-can't," she stammered, before giving in to another wave of tears. "I just c-can't."

Henry had to bite back at his own impatience. "You must," he insisted as gently as he could. "If you tell me everything, I might be able to help you and Maggie, who's life might be in danger."

She even looked as though she were carrying a great burden, and he could tell she really wanted to off-load on to someone, but fear of the consequences was holding her back. He couldn't see how anything a girl of her age could be so wrong, but he pressed on anyway.

"Please, Mary," he said, drawing her into a hug; wrapping his arms protectively about her heaving shoulders. "I promise, a King's promise, that you will be in no trouble at all; that anything you tell me will go no further."

Slowly, her sobs died away. Henry was conscious of wasting time, but if he tried to rush Mary he knew she would relapse into tears and remorse, and he would be set back yet again. He let her take her time, just soothing her along as best as he could in the comfort of the warm semi-darkness.

"A man gave Maggie two notes from her father," Mary explained, and Henry sent up a silent prayer of thanks. "One was for her, and the other was for her brother, King James. She was told to get the note to James at yesterday's peace treaty. The other was to Maggie, telling her to meet him outside the Castle so he could see her one more time before the Queen of Scots took her to England."

Henry felt like he'd mastered the art of alchemy. "The note given to James was the same one that caused the fight?"

Mary nodded. Even in the pale light he could see the look of shame in her eyes, the way her face burned a violent red. "Y-yes," she replied through renewed sobs. "We didn't know what the note said; just that it was to provide a distraction for Maggie to get away from the Castle undetected."

A decoy. Henry could guess at what manner of lies were contained within that note, but it didn't matter. He was about to take his leave, but clearly Mary hadn't finished.

"I helped her to get away," she confessed. "I was meant to meet at the back doors by the stables two hours after she went with her father, but she never came back. He must have taken her away."

"Do you know where?" he asked hopefully.

But Mary shook her head.

Henry forced himself to smile. "You've done well to tell me all this," he assured her, kissing the top of her head. "Is there anything else at all, even if you think it small, that I should know?"

Mary shook her head. "That's all I know, I promise."

"Don't worry," he told her, "I made a promise, and this will stay between us. Now you must get dressed and go about your daily business with Lady Salisbury."

Mary gave him a firmer nod, now. Her tears had dried and her burden of guilt had finally been assuaged. But, Henry had to get this information to the Queen of Scots without dropping Mary in it. The consequences to her could be terrible. There was only one thing he could do; as much as he did not want to. He returned to his chambers; dressed himself as smartly as he could, and kiss his father's old sword for luck and a speedy deliverance from the wrath of his mother and aunt.

* * *

The two women had looked at each other from opposite ends of the presence chamber. Hesitant, at first. One led the army that slew the others husband. The weight of History shifted awkwardly between them. The Battle had changed everything for both women, just in polar opposite ways. The triumphant Queen, Catherine, took the first step towards the defeated Queen, Margaret. No matter what lay between them, they were both mothers; they were both Queens of warring husbands in their day. They were as good as blood, and when the day drew to its close, they were united under the same Tudor flag. And those colours don't run.

"Sister," said Catherine, her hand out-stretched towards Margaret. "I, and my men, are at your service."

Margaret shivered as she fought against a wave of emotion, and took one faltering step closer to her old adversary. "I thank you for your kindness," she replied, and faltered as the tears finally fell.

Catherine rushed forwards, closing the gap between them with a few strides, and caught Margaret before she fell down. "Say no more of it," said Catherine. "We will get her back; we will find her. We must wait for a ransom note while my men search the towns and villages. Your daughter will come home, by the grace of God."

They clasped each other like drowning sailors as they lowered each other to the ground, where they continued to cling to one another. The years of bickering melted away; the years of absence amounted to nothing.

"He's got her," Margaret said, her voice hoarse. "He'll kill her just to scorn me, I know him!"

"Hush! Hush!" Catherine soothed, rocking her back and forth. "We know nothing for certain. I know it's hard but we must wait for news. If we act in haste we are vulnerable to mistakes."

Margaret was wild in her grief. Her eyes were unfocused, and her talk sometimes wild. "You don't know Archibald," she sobbed. "You don't know what he's like. He will kill her for my sins."

All Catherine could do was listen, and try to absorb some of Margaret's fears. It was so soon after the even that things were so unclear and imprecise that it could only lead to panic and rash reactions. They didn't even know if the child had been taken for sure. But, Maggie was gone – that much was certain.

"Margaret, come with me," she said, helping her up off the floor, where their skirts had become a tangled mess at their feet. "We must make a plan in case he has taken her."

It was the least she could do, and it seemed to give Margaret some heart. "Anything is better than waiting," she replied, allowing herself to be led over to the dais where Harry Courtenay was waiting, alongside the Duke of Buckingham.

Ever the gentleman, Harry reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and produced a silk handkerchief. "Here you are," he said, raising a small smile for his Cousin.

Margaret smiled as she took it. "Thank you, Harry," she said, dabbing at her puffy eyes.

The four of them arranged their chairs in a small circle, still up on the dais, and were about to start beating out a plan when a chamberlain entered.

"His Majesty King Henry IX of England to see the Queen Dowager of Scotland," he formally announced, bowing gallantly to Margaret.

The four of them broke apart again, and turned to face the front doors of the Great Hall. Margaret, her brow creased in concern and confusion, assented to the audience. "Show him in, please," she said, exchanging a glance with Catherine.

When Henry appeared, he too, bowed low, a gesture of respect to both a foreign Queen and his own mother. At least, that's what Margaret took it as.

"Nephew," she greeted him, extending her hand.

"Your Grace," Henry replied, kissing his aunt's hand, stopped just short of the dais without going up to join them properly.

It was clear he had made attempts to turn himself out properly. His hair had been flattened into a form of tidiness; he was clean shaven and his black shirt was clean on; even his boots had been polished. Margaret had thought him the double of her late brother. But looking at him now, with his hands folded politely behind his back; his shoulders slumped and his hang-dog expression turning dolefully from one person to the next – he looked as though he had some grave confession to make. He looked at his mother, step-father and Harry Courtenay with something approaching dread – as though he had not expected them to be there.

"Is everything all right, Henry?" asked Harry Courtenay, "are you not coming to join us?"

Henry flinched, jerking around to face his cousin. "Er, no," he said, uncertainly. "I have information for my Aunt..." he faltered, looked down at his boots and swallowed hard. "I have information regarding Lady Margaret-"

"Well then, out with it, child!" Catherine interjected. She didn't sound angry or impatient with him, just mildly bemused at what was causing her son such discomfiture.

Henry squirmed like an insect under a magnifying glass. "I know that her father took her away last night," he blurted out, looking up at Margaret on the dais desperately.

"How do you know this?" asked Margaret, back on her feet now and looking hopeful for the first time.

"She received a note from him, summoning her to a meeting outside the Castle walls. The note said, and I saw it myself, that all Douglas wanted to do was say goodbye to her properly before she was brought to live in England-"

"Wait!" Catherine commanded, and held up one hand to silence him. "You saw this yourself?"

Henry nodded.

"I can't hear you," Catherine bluntly stated.

Henry cringed. "Yes, mother. I saw it."

Edward Stafford was all wide-eyed incomprehension. Harry Courtenay sat with his head dropped in his hands in disbelief. Margaret had no idea what to say, but Harry spared her the effort. He was on his feet, and questioning Henry with a sudden realisation.

"Last night, after you attacked the Scots King," he said, recalling the event to mind, "you said Lady Mary passed a note to Maggie, who gave it to the Usher to give to the Scots King. When we found Mary, she said she knew nothing of it, and I put you back in your chambers for the night. You were under orders to interfere no more until we called on you."

Henry gulped and took a timid backwards step. "I disobeyed. I left my chambers again, and returned to the Great Hall. I was wrong about Mary. She had no part in this. What I really saw," Henry paused, taking a deep breath to steady himself. "What I really saw was an Usher giving Lady Margaret a note from her father asking for a meeting with her. I felt bad about accusing Mary, so I helped Margaret get to her father who was waiting outside with his horse. I was told to wait inside for two hours while they spoke privately. I honestly saw no harm in it. I got distracted by the fight again, and didn't realise that Margaret had not returned. So, now I tell you everything I know. That is all."

What followed was a great and terrible silence, as cold as a glacier that seemed to be crushing the King. After what seemed an eternity, Edward Stafford groaned audibly, like an animal in pain.

"God's death, if you were a year younger I'd take you out and whip your arse to the bone!" he bellowed, getting to his feet and barging past his step-son, almost knocking him over as he went. As he went, he called over his shoulder: "Exeter! Come on! We need men to ride out to Linlithgow, now!"

Henry looked up at his Cousin imploringly as he passed. But even Harry couldn't bring himself to say anything in support of the beleaguered King, now. He hesitated as he passed, looked as though he were about to say something, but evidently changed his mind. Finally, Henry was left with just his aunt and mother.

Margaret was stunned. She had been wrong about her nephew. He took after her brother in looks, but his wits? She had no idea where they came from. Not from either of his parents, if she knew rightly. She couldn't bring herself to scold him, so all she did was get to her feet to follow the men outside.

"Well, I can't think of anywhere else except Linlithgow, either. He has no property of his own," she said, briskly. But, as she passed, she turned to look at her nephew. He was obviously a good boy at heart. "I thank you for your honesty, Your Grace," she said. "That cannot have been easy for you."

Henry turned his overly-bright blue eyes to hers; clearly shocked at such unexpected praise. So unexpected, a tear almost escaped him, and he raised a pained smile in response. She kissed his cheek, and went on her way. She wasn't stopping now until she reached Linlithgow. But Catherine had remained where she was seated until they were alone again. Only a few servants loitered in the shadows of the Presence Chamber now. Calmly, she rose to her feet and descended the small steps to ground level and stood directly in front of him. She held him a glacial gaze; her expression utterly impassive, but he could feel the anger bubbling dangerously below that placid exterior. She said nothing, but slapped him so hard across the face that he reeled back with a yelp of pain.

Catherine turned to one of the guards on the door. "He," she said, jerking her head in Henry's direction, "is to be confined to his chambers until we return from Linlithgow."

* * *

Gertrude Courtenay was waiting outside the stables. Her eyes narrowed as Harry neared her, but she was relieved to see that he was alone. But, why the rush? She pushed herself forwards, into his path, and greeted him with a hug. She half-expected him to push her away; he had that wild look in his eyes, but instead, he threw his arms around her and kissed her cheeks and nuzzled her hair.

"Gertie," he said, at length. "Always teach our son to be clever and study his books."

Gertrude laughed. "What?" she asked, confused.

It was cold, and she wanted to go for a ride in the parklands with him to warm up. But he was being all cryptic with her. It was never a good sign,

"Some people are just born stupid," he explained opaquely. Then sighed. "I don't mean it. But wait until I tell you what that boy did yesterday. No, not our Edward. I mean the King."

They saddled up, along with numerous others making Gertrude doubt that this would be the intimate ride she wanted it to be. But as Harry explained, her disappointment was tempered with worry. "Is this going to become something much bigger?" she asked, fearfully.

Harry paused with the bridle of his horse. "I doubt it, we're giving the man no escape routes," he explained. "We're as much as an army, and he is just one man with a defenceless child. In fact, why don't you come with us? Catherine and Margaret are coming."

He made it sound like a picnic in the park. But it had Gertrude convinced. "Sure," she agreed, planting a kiss on his cheek.

But, just as she went to fetch her own horse, Harry reached out and stopped her. His eyes met hers, deeply searching as if trying to see into her soul. "I know I've given you reason to doubt me, Gertie," he said, "but I love you; I would never hurt you. I need you to know that."

Gertrude stepped back to his side and embraced him again. She let him lean into her for support as relief seemed to make them both sag. "It's all right," she said. "Everything will be just perfect again." She felt as though she had won a competition that she didn't know she had entered.

* * *

Henry felt sick as he watched the rescue party form up at the gates of Alnwick from the window of his locked chambers. The sun was already beginning to set, draining the land of colour and leaving black, shapeless masses on the horizon. Down below was a shimmer of torch glow as the procession moved off. Margaret was already gone, riding ahead to hunt her husband down and, he presumed, ready to eat the bastard's vitals on a bed of lettuce and cherries.

That day, he knew, his sister had incurred a debt to him that could never be repaid. He couldn't even explain why he had done it, except that he couldn't bear to see her land in so much trouble, especially with her father. The Queen would not have shown much mercy, either – it was only due to his station that he'd dodged a thorough whipping at the hands of his step-father and Catherine would have agreed to it.

When the last horse vanished through the gates and into the gloom of dusk, he turned miserably from his window and lay down on his bed. He landed on something hard and sharp. Fumbling beneath the blanket, he found his father's old sword. The one he took to France when he died. The same one that his Grandfather, Henry VII, had used when he thought King Richard at Bosworth all those years ago. Now, it lay dormant in a disgraced boy's chambers, making no history and winning no glorious victories. He glanced over the Tudor Rose decorations at the hilt, and tossed it down the side of his bed and out of his way so he could slip further into a haze of self-pity.

Only an hour or so later, however, he was rudely disturbed from that same haze by the lock jolting back in his door. He sat up and watched as the strangely elegant bulk of Cardinal Wolsey eased itself around the door.

Henry groaned. "Please," he implored his God father, "not another telling off. I'm already being punished."

Wolsey just smiled his calm and unruffled smile. "No more of that, Harry," he said, ruffling Henry's hair. "I thought it was very sweet of you, though."

Henry's brow creased. "Sweet?" he asked, nonplussed.

"Yes," replied Wolsey. "Very kind, but misguided if you don't mind my say so, to take the consequences of – and this is purely a guess – Lady Mary's actions?"

Henry was aghast. "You knew?"

"I guessed," Wolsey corrected him. "The others are very emotional at the moment. Their heads are running with their hearts and not thinking clearly. Even your mother, and really this is not like her."

"I know, but I can't let Mary get into trouble for this. It wasn't her fault!"

Wolsey raised a hand to placate him. "You didn't think to come to me?" he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he continued: "What's done is done. You can lie here like a beaten dog, or you can ride out after the party and help."

"You'll let me out?" asked Henry. "Really?"

"You're the King, Henry, and I want to see you exert yourself, now," he explained. "Prove your worth; redeem yourself, and undo Mary's damage instead of just diverting the consequences of it."

"But I-"

"I have faith in you, Henry," the Cardinal cut him off. "You know, your father of blessed memory had this same problem. King at seventeen, he was treated like a child by the Council who wanted to do everything for him. Now you're in the same predicament, and I want to get you out of your shell just like I wanted him out of his."

Henry couldn't think what to say. He moved to retrieve his sword from where it had been discarded.

"Go now," Wolsey said as he got up to leave, "before I change my mind. This door stays unlocked for one hour."

Henry felt a rush of gratitude that he could not articulate as he hurriedly packed a bag for his journey. He had a guide of his own, and some men from his own household would be suitable for the company. All were itching for action since the moment they got here. Finally, he felt like he could achieve something.


	24. Blast From the Past

**Author's Note:** Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, I appreciate it a lot!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Blast From the Past.**

Maggie's eyelids slowly fluttered open and her head starting turning cartwheels. She had no sense of where she was; how she got there, and less still of how long she had been there. All she could feel was the mattress beneath her, and the sheets twisted around her legs, holding her in place. She tried to wriggle free, but her limbs felt like lead weights and her movements were clumsy. And it was dark. The windows were blocked, and the only light in the room came from a guttering fire in a nearby hearth. Drained of energy, she let herself fall back against the straw mattress and peered into the semi-darkness, letting tears of frustration and betrayal slide down her temples and willed her head to stop spinning, anything to help her get her bearings back.

She sniffed loudly, which was answered by a heavy shuffling noise from a corner of the room she could not see without twisting her head to an impossible angle. Seconds later, and her father was looming over her, his face in shadow, but she could still see the gleam in his eye as he reached out and stroked the hair back from her face.

"Hush," he soothed, "Mama will be here soon, and then it will all be over."

Her laborious heart-beat quickened as she fought to subdue the wave of panic that washed over her. "What do you mean?" her voice sounded alien to her; like someone else had spoken the words through her mouth.

"Shush, sweeting, shush," he cooed, "calm yourself – there's not long left now."

"She will kill you," she answered defiantly as some of her old spirit crept back into her. It cost her dearly, though, and she could move or talk no more. She was powerless to stop him from lifting her head off the sweat soaked pillow, and tipping the contents of a flask into her yielding mouth. She tried to spit it out, squirting some of it into Archibald's face. It soaked into the sheets, and dribbled in rivulets down her chin. But enough slid down her throat to plunge her back into the shadow-lands of her own unconsciousness.

* * *

Margaret's jaw was set firm as she brought her horse to a standstill on the prow the hill and looked up at her old home, the Palace of Linlithgow. There wasn't much by way of daylight left to go until it would be too dark to see, but she wasn't about to stop again. She looked over her shoulder, saw that Catherine and Edward were barely yards behind her, with Harry and Gertrude Courtenay bringing up the rear with the rest of their band of men with them. During the frantic journey her fear had galvanised into fury; fury that someone she had loved had tried to destroy her. Free from his poison, her mind was clear and certain; she knew what she had to do, and no lingering affection, no misplaced sentimentality, was going to cloud her judgement ever again.

After just a few minutes, Catherine and Edward caught her up. Their panting, sweating, horses came to a shuddering halt at her side, their breath fogging the air around them.

"Are you ready, Margaret?" Catherine asked, nodding towards the Palace.

Margaret nodded. "Ready," she confirmed. "The place will be empty. Court has not sat here for some time, and anyway, they will all be in Northumberland for the Conference. Archie couldn't have picked a better time."

Edward, however, was already thinking of a strategy. "For now, I suggest we leave the men outside while Cate, myself and Gertrude Courtenay open negotiations with the Duke-"

"Negotiations?" asked Margaret, an eyebrow raised in scepticism.

"Of course," Edward replied gruffly, "we distract him with talk of ransom and conditions, even promise to make you return to him. While we do that, you get in there with Harry, Gertrude and Aislin and get your daughter out safely. Once you're away, we order his arrest in your name and get out safely after you. Simple!"

Margaret looked relieved. "Sorry, Your Grace, I thought you meant serious negotiations."

Edward looked repulsed by the idea. "I'd sooner see my daughter in a brothel than negotiate with a man like that."

"Buckingham is right," said Harry Courtenay as he, too, caught up with them. "I remember my way around this place, so I'll lead one search party with Gertrude, and you go with Aislin. I know the place is almost empty, but some of his men are bound to be around – they'll take you straight to him."

Gertrude looked concerned. "What if Maggie is with him, and not held somewhere separate? How do we get her out from under his nose?"

Harry shrugged. "We call in the men and a fight ensues. Not ideal, but it can be done."

There was a murmur of agreement, and very little time left to waste. Margaret turned to face the Palace again, noting the lowered drawbridge. Silently, they formed a procession ready to complete the journey. Even the best laid plans could go awry, so all carried weapons concealed under their riding cloaks which they all now touched for reassurance as Margaret demanded entry, and they passed into their enemy's camp.

* * *

King Henry had the foresight to send a rider ahead of his small party, but each time he came back to them reporting that he missed the Queens party by minutes. He had no idea his mother could ride so fast, especially at her age! Luckily, he had also managed to secure the services of his uncle, Charles Brandon. Even if he had missed the main party, he still had Suffolk's military expertise to fall back on.

They came to a halt just before the walls of the Palace; the churned up earth told him that the main party had already passed this way. All along the castle ramparts, armed men paced too and fro, all talking with English accents. To Henry's relief, few of them recognising him. At least his mother had left an army outside in case they were being led straight into a trap.

Charles dismounted, ready to pass through the drawbridge. "We'll just have to meet them in there," he informed Henry. "Do you think we should take some of these in with us?" he asked, nodding to the English soldiers.

"Best not," he replied, "my mother may have need of them once she gets in."

"Well then, let's not tarry further."

Henry looked once more up at the palace. It was almost too dark to see, and only a small number of windows had glimmers of light behind them. It looked like a ghost town, and it chilled him to his core.

* * *

The knock at the door was gentle, but Archibald Douglas still cursed. He glanced over at Maggie, making sure the sudden noise had not disturbed her. But the Valerian extract he had laced her water with held fast, and she did not stir. He got to his feet, and unbolted the door. Opening it just a fraction, he pressed his face right up to the aperture. His old ally, the Earl of Lennox was on the other side, looking fretful and anxious. "They're here," he said, as soon as Archibald appeared. "My wife has returned with them-"

"I only want Margaret," he hissed in response. "I don't care about Aislin, Catherine or anyone else she's brought with her. Get your men ready, though. I'll be out in a minute."

With that. He shut the door and bolted it again. He crossed to the nearby window, and opened the shutter so he could see down into the darkening Courtyard below. A thrill of excitement coursed through him as he spotted Margaret making her way into the Castle. He didn't care about the others; he didn't know how he would get rid of them, but he didn't care enough to bother himself. He watched until they had entered and vanished, presumably in search of him. He smiled, sensing the end close by now, when he would finally get the retribution he had been fantasising about.

However, as he prepared to leave, he noticed another group, smaller this time. Had she brought her nephew, too? He couldn't waste time working out who was who – he had to get to Margaret. As he left to waylay his wife, he paused only to ensure the door of his daughter's cell was securely locked.

* * *

They split into three groups the moment they arrived. Margaret and Aislin; Harry and Gertrude, and Catherine and Edward, all taking on a section of the Palace. But Catherine and Edward were lost. One gallery led onto another, all looking the same, all seemingly leading nowhere. Although they had expected the Palace to be under-populated, they hadn't expected anything like this. It was deserted. Only the occasional guard had to be dodged as they scoured the chambers for any sign of the Earl. That alone was evidence that they were in entirely the wrong place.

They emerged out onto an open gallery, and a voice echoed across the chamber.

"Who goes there?"

Catherine whirled around, and through a haze of torchlight, could see an armed guard advancing towards them with his pike held out. She stepped forwards, linking her arm through Edward's for support as her heartbeat began to hammer against her ribs.

"My husband and I have an audience with the Earl of Douglas," she informed the man. "Perhaps, if you could be so kind-"

"The Earl is not to be disturbed," the guard retorted, his voice muffled by his visor. "Leave this place now."

Edward shook Catherine off, freeing himself of his travelling cloak in the process, and drew his sword in a second. "Cate, get help now!" he called as he lunged for the guard, plunging his sword deep through the guards chainmail. The man's blood oozed over the Duke's hands as his knees buckled from under him. It was all so quick that the guard didn't seem to realise what had happened.

Catherine hesitated for just a second, making sure their attacker really was dead. "I'll send them in and wait outside," she promised. "God speed."

* * *

Margaret and Aislin clasped each other's hand as they slowly felt their way along the pitch black corridors towards their old apartments. She had walked this route so many times she could have done it in her sleep. But, now, the two women needed the physical reassurance of each other.

"In there," Margaret whispered to Aislin, nodded towards the pale outline of the double doors that led to the Queen's old apartments.

Aislin drew in a deep, shuddering breath. "We've got to try," she agreed.

Margaret toed the door open, and as they huddled closer, she and Aislin entered together. The pale moonlight was the only source of light in the deserted chambers, now. The ghostly outlines of furniture, tables and bookcases were visible, the smell of dust hung heavy in the air. It was strange to see a place once so full of life reduced to an empty shell. Leaving the door open for a quick get away, they separated to conduct a full search.

"There's no sign of anyone having been here since we left," Aislin commented, as she opened a closet door.

Margaret sighed. "You're right," she said, ruefully. Not even a clue as to Maggie's whereabouts could be found.

Behind them, however, the door closed. The two woman whirled around towards the source of the noise, and their eyes fell straight onto the hulking shadow that now blocked the doorway.

"I knew you'd come, Margaret," Archibald said, he sounded eerily calm; like she'd simply returned from a long hunting trip.

Margaret's mouth ran dry and she backed up against the wall. "Go now," she whispered low to Aislin, "run down the servants steps."

Aislin nodded, even though she knew that Margaret couldn't see her, and immediately began fumbling for the door which led to the back steps. Once she had gone to alert the others, Margaret knew she was alone with him. She was not afraid any more.

"What have you done with our daughter?" she asked, as he finally stepped into a pool of pale moonlight that slanted in through the lead casements.

He smiled. "She is safe," he answered, "she is waiting for us to collect her."

"Where?" Margaret demanded, stepping closer to him. "Take me to her right now, or I swear I will kill you!"

Archibald squinted through the poor light, struggling to keep her in focus. "You won't kill me," he laughed, "you won't leave me, either."

Margaret shook her head. "It's over, Archie," she calmly informed him. "It's over, so just hand Maggie back to me, and we can all walk away without anyone getting hurt. Hurry, before Aislin gets back with our soldiers."

She knew what he would do next before he even thought of doing it himself. He lunged at her, but she was too quick for him, now. She fled down the stone steps of the servants entrance, knowing fully that he would pursue her to the ends of the earth, now. She also had an idea of where she wanted to lead him.

* * *

Henry dodged past Charles Brandon and lunged at the guard who had intercepted them as soon as he heard his mother's voice calling for help. As soon as he wrestled the man to the floor, he drew his sword out and held to the man's throat. He was about to plunge the blade into the man's flesh, when Charles ordered him to stay his hand.

"The Earl of Angus came here last week with a young girl – his daughter. Tell us where they are, and you go free," said Charles. "Resist, and my little friend here will slit your throat from ear to ear."

The man squirmed, causing his helmet to fall off. In the moonlight that flooded the abandoned Great Hall, Henry could see the terror in his eyes as he struggled and flinched against the tip of the sword.

"I-I know nothing!" he cried out.

Henry increased the pressure. "You lie," he said, icily. But he felt sick at the thought of killing a man.

But he was spared. "North Tower," the guard spluttered. "She's locked in; you'll never get her."

"Get up!" Henry shouted down at him. "And take us there now."

The man clearly had no choice. He rose slowly to his feet, never once taking his eyes off the sword Henry kept trained on him at all times. "All right then," he said, "follow me."

The man led them back the way they came, and up a flight of narrow, twisting steps lit by torches set in brackets against the damp stone walls. Eventually, he led them out onto the Castle ramparts, where cannons lined the walls protecting the old Palace was outside attackers. As soon as they emerged into the open, Henry knew something was amiss.

"Where are you taking us?" he asked, tremulous.

He took his eye off their prisoner for just one second to glance at Charles, but that was all the man needed.

"I'm taking you to hell!" the man retorted, lashing out at Henry with all his might, knocking his sword clean out of his hands.

Charles reacted swiftly, however, and punched the guard square in the jaw, sending him reeling backwards. Henry scrabbled about for his sword, but it had fallen between the cannons and he couldn't reach it. Charles, meanwhile, was fighting hand to hand with the guard, affording Henry little opportunity to search. Instead, he reached up for Charles's sword, and used it to plunge into the belly of their attacker. With one final push, Charles threw the man over the ramparts. A second, and no more, of silence fell before the man's body hit the cobblestones below with a sickening crunch.

A great wave of nausea washed over Henry as he looked down at the blood on his hands – blood from his first ever kill. But he didn't have time to dwell on it. Their enemies deception had cost them dearly.

"Do you think he was telling the truth about the North Tower?" Charles asked, panting for breath.

"We should try anyway," replied Henry. "Come on."

Events drove Henry's sword clean out of his mind as he got up to stagger back towards the steps they had just emerged from. His sole concern now was locating the North Tower, and not even the brief glimpse of a frantic woman running full pelt along the ramparts registered in his reeling mind.

* * *

"Stop!" Margaret cried as the two men vanished back inside the Palace, and she knew they had not heard her. She was alone, again, with just Archibald in hot pursuit.

At least there was more light out there in the open. For a moment, she leaned against one of the cannons, struggling to get her breath back. The cold air burned her lungs, and a sweat had broken out against the full length of her body. She let the feel of the cold, solid iron of the deadly weapon soothe her, as the idea took hold and she allowed herself a smile. The bucket of shot was by the wall. Heavy, she had to drag it over to the cannon, and then load the thing herself. She had seen them do it enough times, and she had a broad idea of what she doing. She loaded up, and used the rods to press the shot down with cotton wool. There were flints in a box fixed against the wall. It took a few seconds, and all she had to do was turn the cannon on its axis, so it would be facing him when he caught her up. In the meantime, she picked up a fallen sword – one that she recognised. It had been her father's, and she thought it had belonged to her nephew now. She turned it over in her hands, studied the Tudor Rose detail, and sheaved it in her own belt.

Finally, Archibald appeared, breathless and sweating like a pig, only to find himself face to face with a cannon that was primed and ready for action at the strike of a flint. He came shuddering to a halt twenty feet along the ramparts and almost fell to his knees.

"What the hell are you doing?" he gasped, clutching at a stitch in his side. "If that thing backfires it will kill us both."

Margaret laughed. "Don't be silly," she retorted. "Now, tell me where my daughter is you bastard."

"No," he shouted back, "for everything we were to each other, I will not let you do this. It's not over...we can sort this out. Just think of all the history that lies between us."

"Oh it's history," Margaret agree as she took the rough flint in her hands. She struck it against the wall, "now, here's a real blast from the past for old time's sake!"

The flame caught the fuse instantly, and a moment later the blast echoed violently around the Palace and the whole of the east tower of the Palace crumbled as it took the full force of the cannon blast. A great dust plume filled the air and for a long moment, there was no sign of Archibald anywhere. Margaret panicked; she had not meant to kill him yet, just scare him. But, he emerged from under a pile of fallen debris. Battered, bloody but not dead.

Margaret drew her father's old sword.

"You missed," he quipped drily with a snort of laughter. "Even from that distance and with a cannon-"

She cut him off as she plunged the blade of her sword deep into his abdomen, and relished the feel of the hot blood spilling in a great torrent over her bare hands. At that moment, the memory of every blow, every beating and every insult flashed through Margaret's mind. "I just wanted to watch the light leave your eyes, you bastard whoreson!" she gasped, breathless from holding him up by the sword that was now embedded deep within him.

He turned his face to hers, mouth open but beyond speech. He withered and died before her, like a stuck pig on a spit. She kicked his corpse off the end of her blade with a scream of rage and anguish that had been building up inside her for more than ten years.

* * *

"What the hell was that?" Gertrude cried out in alarm as the blast reverberated around the tower they were running up.

From overhead, a great rush of rubble could be heard tumbling like a landslide. Harry grabbed his wife's wrist and pulled her close before running them both back down the tower steps.

"It sounded like cannon!" he called over his shoulder.

They had been searching the Palace for over two hours, now. So far they had run into Edward Stafford, who informed them that the Queen had gone to get help from the soldiers, and no one else had been seen at all. Now, they had to run back the way they came. But, once they reached a place of relative safety, an ante-chamber just off the Great Hall, Harry pulled Gertrude inside so they could catch their breath.

"Are you all right?" he asked, panting and wiping the sweat from his brow.

Gertrude nodded. "Fine," she replied, but still shaken from the explosion. "This is turning into a battle, Harry. I knew it would."

"It's all right," he assured her, wrapping his arms around her trembling shoulders. "I'll look after you."

They held each other close for a long moment, before re-entering the Great Hall hand in hand. "Which way now?" asked Gertrude, looking all around. "It all looks the same."

"I know the way!"

The third voice startled them both. Harry whirled around with his sword drawn, but quickly sheaved it again with an audible groan of exasperation. Gertrude turned, and almost squealed.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked, as the King stepped into the Hall.

Henry looked sheepish. "Sorry, Cousin," he replied. "Wolsey let me out and told me to come and make amends. So, er, here I am."

Harry looked him up and down, thought about scolding his latest act of disobedience, but instead threw his arms around the boy. Gertrude laughed with relief, going over to join them. The distant sounds of fighting could be heard, but just for one precious moment, the three of them embraced. Finally, it was Henry who pulled away.

"Maggie's in the North Tower," he said, "we must hurry."

Harry led the way, with Henry following just one pace behind them, and Charles Brandon bringing up the rear. They opted to dodge any guards they met, rather than fighting them, as Henry had lost his sword and they had already wasted so much time. But, the mouth to the North Tower was guarded by four men. They hung back in an alcove and hastily agreed that Harry and Charles should both fight while Henry and Gertrude waited for the best opportunity to dodge past and get up the stairs to the Tower. The odds of two on four were not perfect, but they had to try. The others seemed to have vanished in the depths of the Palace, and back-up could take too long to arrive.

Harry and Charles burst out of their hiding place and immediately engaged the guards, hoping that the element of surprise would throw them off guard. Charles was quick; he swiftly saw off one guard with a silent and deadly slash to the throat with his ordinary hunting knife. Henry watched from his hiding place in awe. Harry wasn't slow, either, having plunged his sword straight into a second. But now the two of them were in hand to hand combat with the two remaining guards putting up a strong fight, angered and spurred on by the deaths of their brothers in arms.

"Harry, look out!" cried Henry as he shot out of his hiding place and lunged at the guard who went to plunge his blade into Harry's stomach.

He wrestled the man to the floor, but it was too late. Harry fell back, the blade of the sword embedded deeply in his side, and a pool of blood rushing out in a flood against the cold flagstones. Gertrude screamed in anguish as he hit the floor with a dull crash, but Henry grabbed his sword to finish his assailant off. Charles over-powered the fourth, who had dropped his weapon thinking they had won. Silence fell heavily as the fighting ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Silence broken only as Gertrude fell at her husband's side.

"Go," she urged the others, "get Maggie, now!"

Henry cast one final look at his Cousin before doing as he was bid, with Charles following. Gertrude hooked her hands under Harry's armpits and dragged him to the alcove she had hidden in, just to get him away from his killers. But, as she dragged him over the uneven ground, he suddenly let out a cry of pain. He clasped the sword, and wrenched it out of his side, causing another wave of pain to come crashing over his torn body.

"You're alive!" she cried, relief washing over her.

He was pale, though. Even in the golden glow of the burning torches, he was weak and pale looking. He was still losing blood by the gallon, too. He looked up at her with his clear, cornflower blue eyes, and shook his head. "No," he whispered hoarsely. "Not for much longer."

Gertrude wasn't listening. She kicked the sword away, and began tearing at her gown to use as bandaging until Harry used the last of his ebbing strength to still her hand. "Gertie," he said, "take that locket from around my neck."

She paused, tears beginning to spill down her cheeks. That locket had an old miniature picture of Aislin in it, or so she thought. But, it was his dying wish. She pulled at the chain, and opened it so he could see it before she pressed it into his palms. Inside was actually a lock of their young son's hair, alongside a miniature of herself – not that other woman. "It was always you," he said, but his voice was growing weaker, she could scarcely hear him.

"No!" she shouted at him, "you're not dying; not now!"

Her grief was turning to anger, and she resumed tearing strips off her frock and began stuffing them into the open wound in his side. Only his cries of pain stopped her, and she forced herself to be calm again. Tears were pouring down her face, now. She could hardly see for tears.

Up above, someone was kicking a door down. Maggie? Probably. Voices called out; it seemed she was found already. Gertrude was beyond caring.

"I've always loved you, so won't let you die, not like this," she said.

But, he shook his head. "Just hold me," he whispered, a raising a hand meekly, a sad gesture of farewell to a woman he knew he loved with all his heart, and his dying breath.

Wasting no more precious time with useless words, she cradled his head in her lap, and leaned down to kiss him full on the lips. Closing her eyes as she did so, she channelled every ounce of her love into that one, final, kiss. She held him until she felt his body go limp, and the locket slid from his placid hand onto the flagstones. When she drew away; her Harry was gone.


End file.
